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White  represents  the  Christian  and  Black  the  Non-Christian  World. 


Mission  Stories 


Published  by  the  Young  People’s  Department  of  the  Christian 
Woman’s  Board  of  Missions  Indianapolis,  Indiana,  U.  S.  A. 


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MISSION  STORIES 


A  LIFE  OF  FAITH 

By  JESSIE  BROWN  POUNDS 

It  is  a  sigiiiticant  fact  that  one  of  the  most  familiar  names  in 
the  history  of  foreign  missions  should  be  that  of  a  man  who  was 
not  a  foreign  missionary.  Louis  Harms  had  neither  the  physical 
strength  nor  the  mental  adaptability  necessary  to  work  in  the  for¬ 
eign  field;  and  yet  his  life  made  possible  the  labors  of  scores  and 
even  hundreds  of  laborers  abroad,  while  his  own  direct  efforts  were 
confined  to  a  single  parish. 

He  was  born  in  1808,  and,  when  he  was  nine  years  old,  he  went  to 
live  in  Hermannsburg,  Germany,  afterward  the  scene  of  his  noble 
labors.  At  sixteen  he  entered  the  high  school  at  Celle,  and  two  years 
later  Gottingen  University.  Here  lie  was  an  ambitious  student,  but, 
influenced  by  unfortunate  associates  and  surroundings,  he  drifted  into 
infidelity.  At  length,  in  a  quiet  study  of  God's  word,  there  came 
faith;  'and  faith  was  swiftly  followed  by  consecration.  Henceforth 
he  belonged  to  Christ,  and  lived  but  to  serve  Him. 

For  a  number  of  years  he  was  a  teacher.  He  received  calls  to 
large  fields,  but  he  seems  to  have  held,  with  singular  tenacity,  to 
the  conviction  that  his  best  work  would  be  done  in  his  old  home  at 
Hermannsburg.  Thither  he  went,  in  1843,  to  become  assistant  in 
the  church  of  which  his  father  was  pastor. 

The  death  of  his  father,  in  1849,  left  him  the  only  minister  in 
Hermannsburg.  He  came  to  exert  a  marvelous  influence  in  the  com¬ 
munity.  There  were  great  ingatherings  of  souls,  and  religion  became 
the  chief  theme  of  conversation,  in  the  field  and  at  the  fireside. 
“The  people  are  like  one  Christian  family,”  an  observer  wrote. 


4 


M i s  s io  n  Stories 


There  now  grew  up  in  the  heart  of  Louis  Harms  a  desire  that  his 
people  might  share  in  the  work  of  the  world’s  evangelization.  A 
seminary  was  established,  and  the  training  of  missionary  volunteers 
undertaken.  As  volunteers  of  widely  varying  gifts  and  tempera¬ 
ments  came,  the  idea  of  a  missionary  colony  from  Hermannsburg 
presented  itself.  There  was  no  money  in  hand  for  such  an  enter¬ 
prise,  but  Harms  was  in  the  habit  of  making  large  drafts  upon  the 
bank  of  faith. 

The  ship  “Candace”  was  built,  and  launched  in  October,  1853. 
In  it  the  first  colony  of  Hermannsburg  missionaries  was  sent  out  to 
work  in  South  Africa.  They  had  breathed  their  pastor’s  spirit  of 
faith,  and  pressed  their  work,  in  spite  of  threatening  obstacles,  to 
rapid  and  permanent  success.  Within  seven  years  eight  stations 
had  been  established,  one  hundred  settlers  had  begun  work,  forty 
thousand  acres  of  land  acquired,  and  fifty  heathens  baptized. 

Meanwhile,  the  work  of  faith  went  on  at  Hermannsburg.  Many 
came  from  unexpected  sources,  and  new  missions  were  undertaken. 
“It  is  wonderful,”  said  Harms,  “when  one  has  nothing,  and  ten  thou¬ 
sand  crowns  are  laid  in  his  hand  by  the  dear  Lord.” 

Louis  Ilarms  was  through  much  of  his  life  a  great  sufferer,  and 
he  succumbed  to  disease  before  old  age  was  reached.  His  death, 
like  his  life,  was  a  triumph  of  faith.  He  had  seen  the  travail  of 
his  soul,  and  he  was  satisfied  to  go,  and  to  leave  the  work  to  other 
hands. 

That  work  is  his  memorial.  More  than  sixtv  mission  stations, 
scattered  over  South  Africa,  India,  Australia  and  New  Zealand,  and 
manned  by  workers  from  the  Hermannsburg  society,  testify  to  the 
power  of  his  life  of  faith. 


THE  STORY  OF  DIGGING  A  WELL 

By  ANNIE  EWING  DAVIDSON 

Hear  Boys  and  Girls:  Many  of  you  have  been  giving  your 
money  to  help  erect  the  buildings  in  which  our  missionaries  can  work 
in  heathen  lands.  I  wonder  how  many  of  you  ever  read  about  the 
lives  of  great  missionaries.  I  have  been  reading  about  a  great  and 
good  man  who  has  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life  in  Christianizing 
the  people  of  the  New  Hebrides. 

Look  on  your  map  and  you  will  see  that  these  islands  are  near 
Australia.  The  people  there  were  the  lowest  degraded  savages.  They 


Mission  Stories 


o 


were  caimiabls  (you  know  this  means  that  they  killed  and  ate  human 
heings)  ;  they  killed  and  hurned  people  for  offerings  to  their  idols. 
When  men  died,  their  wives  were  hurned  or  huried  alive  with  their 
hushands’  bodies.  When  their  parents  grew  old  and  unable  to  work, 
they  were  killed  to  get  rid  of  the  care  of  them.  These  are  some  of 
the  wicked  things  these  people  did  before  John  Patou  went  to  them 
and  taught  them  about  Christ.  It  would  take  volumes  to  tell  all  that 
this  noble  man  did  and  endured  for  these  people.  What  I  want  to 
tell  you  about  is  how  the  digging  of  a  well  led  many  people  to  become 
Christians. 

When  John  Paton  took  his  family  to  one  of  these  islands  he  found 
they  had  no  wells  or  cisterns.  (Sea  water  is  too  salt  for  human 
use).  During  the  rainy  season,  from  December  to  April,  they  had 
fresh  water;  the  rest  of  the  year  they  used  the  milk  of  tlie  cocoanut 
and  juice  of  sugar  cane  to  quench  their  thirst.  It  seems  strange  to 
us  that  they  could  live  without  water  to  wash  with.  Paton  knew 
that  he  and  his  family  would  not  live  without  fresh  water,  so  he  re¬ 
solved  to  dig  a  welb  Because  he  had  been  very  kind  to  the  people 
and  made  many  presents  to  the  chief,  they  allowed  him  to  stay,  but 
when  he  told  them  he  was  going  to  dig  a  hole  in  the  ground  to  find 
water,  they  thought  he  had  gone  crazy.  The  only  fresh  water  they 
knew  of  was  rain.  The  chief  said,  “Why,  you  can’t  find  rain  in  a  hole 
in  the  ground;  rain  comes  only  from  above!”  He  told  them  he  be¬ 
lieved  that  his  God  would  send  rain  through  a  hole  in  the  ground. 
So  he  began  to  dig.  The  chief  begged  him  to  quit  and  not  let  his 
people  hear  him  talk  about  rain  coming  up  from  the  ground,  or  they 
would  think  his  head  was  wrong,  and  would  never  believe  him  again. 

The  old  chief  appointed  men  to  watch  him,  thinking  he  was  crazy. 
Paton  hired  some  of  them  to  help  him  a  little,  paying  them  with  fish¬ 
hooks.  After  long,  hard  work  under  the  hot  sun,  when  he  had  made 
the  well  twelve  feet  deep,  one  night  it  caved  in.  The  chief  again 
begged  him  to  give  up  the  crazy  notion  of  finding  rain  in  the  ground, 
and  came  near  driving  him  away  from  the  island. 

The  natives  would  not  help  him  with  the  second  well,  and  grew 
more  and  more  afraid  of  him.  When  he  had  gone  down  thirty  feet 
the  ground  began  to  feel  damp.  He  prayed  earnestly  to  God  to  give 
a  spring  of  fresh  water.  He  knew  he  could  not  hold  out  much  longer 
at  the  work,  and  if  he  did  not  find  water  soon,  the  people  would  drive 
him  away  or  kill  him.  He  finally  told  the  chief  that  he  believed  God 
would  give  him  water  in  that  hole  by  tomorrow.  The  chief  said,  “No, 
you  will  never  see  rain  coming  up  from  the  earth,  on  this  island. 
We  expect  daily,  if  you  reach  water,  to  see  you  drop  through  into 


6 


Mission  Stories 


the  sea,  and  the  sharks  will  eat  you!”  After  praying  through  the 
night,  he  went  next  morning  and  made  a  small  hole  at  the  bottom  of 
the  well,  and  water  rushed  in.  He  fell  on  his  knees  in  the  muddv 
water  and  thanked  God.  Ihe  chief  and  his  people  were  waiting  a 
little  way  off,  afraid  to  come  near  the  -well.  He  brought  up  a  jug 
full,  and  when  they  had  tasted  it  and  found  it  really  was  rain  (as 
they  called  fresh  water)  they  asked  where  he  got  it.  He  told  them 
God  gave  it  through  that  hole  in  the  ground  and  they  could  all  use 
it.  At  first  they  were  afraid  to  go  near  the  well  until  they  formed  a 
long  line,  holding  to  each  other,  the  bravest  man  looking  in  first, 
then  going  back  to  the  end  of  the  line  to  help  hold  the  rest.  At  last 
they  were  convinced  that  they  could  indeed  be  blessed  with  fresh 
water  all  the  year  round.  Then  they  said,  “If  his  God  can  do  this, 
we  will  hear  about  Him,”  and  soon  many  of  them  believed.  They 
were  finally  led  to  destroy  their  idols,  to  give  up  their  awful  customs, 
and  become  an  enlightened  Christian  people. 

John  Paton  translated  the  Bible  into  their  language,  and  they 
were  so  anxious  to  have  copies  of  it  that  they  worked  fifteen  years 
preparing  arrow  root  (all  they  had)  to  sell,  to  make  the  money 
necessary  to  send  to  Australia  to  have  it  printed.  How  many  of  you 
think  so  much  of  your  Bibles?  And  yet  it  is  the  Bible  which  tells  us 
of  Jesus,  the  Water  of  Life  for  us  as  well  as  for  them. 

IN  MONTEREY,  MEXICO 

By  HELEN  E.  MOSES 

I  hope  you  will  enjoy  a  ride  to  the  Bishop’s  Palace,  up  the  moun¬ 
tain  side  northwest  of  Monterey.  We  had  better  take  a  carriage,  for 
the  evening  is  advancing  rapidly.  Here  we  call  it  Coche  (pronounced 
Ko-tchay).  We  must  mtake  a  definite  bargain  with  our  driver,  for 
as  we  are  Americanos  he  may  think  we  have  enough  money  so  that 
we  will  not  be  particular  about  the  price  charged  us. 

How  narrow  the  streets  are!  We  almost  run  over  the  two  little 
mules  hitched  tandem  to  the  ancient  looking  street  car.  Hothing 
looks  familiar.  The  houses  are  all  Mexican,  are  but  one  story  high 
and  are  built  close  upon  the  street.  Where  there  are  any  sidewalks 
they  are  very  narrow  and  are  made  just  as  the  owner  of  the  property 
pleases.  The  doors  to  the  houses  are  very  heavy  and  the  windows 
which  are  also  double  doors  having  glass  in  the  upper  half,  are  cov¬ 
ered  with  iron  gratings.  The  patios,  or  yards,  have  walls  around 
them  almost  as  high  as  the  houses,  which  makes  the  street  very 
uninteresting. 


M  i  s  s  i  on  Stories 


7 


Here  is  a  group  of  little  thatched  cane  huts  of  the  very  poor 
people.  Can  women  and  children  really  live  in  such  miserable  places? 
Surely  they  must,  for  the  children  are  coming  out  to  look  at  us. 
Their  mother  follows.  No  wonder  her  face  looks  hopeless,  but  the 
children  are  very  bright.  The  baby  is  on  the  shoulders  of  her  brother 
who  staggers  under  her  weight.  If  we  were  walking,  the  little  brown 
hands  would  be  outstretched  toward  us  with  the  cry,  centavo, 
centavo,  for  these  little  folks  are  as  fond  of  pennies  as  the  children 
of  the  homeland,  and  do  not  hesitate  to  ask  for  a  gift — that  is,  the 
children  from  these  poor  little  abodes.  The  children  of  our  school 
and  those  we  meet  in  the  homes  in  which  we  visit  are  very  gentle  and 
thoughtful  for  your  pleasure. 

As  we  near  the  foot  of  the  great  hill  upon  which  the  palace  stands, 
we  pass  beautiful  homes  in  the  midst  of  orange  groves  and  delightful 
gardens.  The  air  is  perfumed  with  roses  and  sweet  violets  and  the 
beautiful  scarlet  poinsetta,  or  Mexican  Christmas  flower,  which 
grows  here  as  large  as  our  garden  azalia,  and  flaunts  its  glorious 
blossoms  almost  in  our  faces. 

Near  the  foot  of  the  hill  we  leave  our  carriage  and  begin  the  up¬ 
ward  march.  The  wild  flowers  growing  in  the  scanty  soil  in  the 
crevices  of  the  rocks  tempt  us.  They  are  all  new  and  strange,  all 
are  tiny  and  delicate,  yet  having  tints  of  brightest  blue,  pink  and 

vellow. 

«/ 

The  palace  is  in  full  view  as  we  climb  the  slope.  It  looks  much 
more  like  a  fortress  than  a  palace,  and  its  walls  bear  many  scars 
from  American  guns.  This  grim-looking  building  was  commenced  in 
1782  and  completed  in  1790,  by  Bisliop  Verger,  for  a  summer  res¬ 
idence.  It  was  assaulted  by  the  American  army  September  21,  1849. 
At  this  time  it  received  its  many  scars.  Time,  too,  has  battered  it, 
until  now  it  has  fallen  into  disuse  and  decay.  Still  a  lonely  sentinel 
keeps  watch  at  its  portal,  the  only  reminder  of  the  gallant  army 
which  so  bravely  defended  the  city  long  ago. 

After  going  through  the  empty  ruins  of  the  palace  we  will  pause 
on  the  summit  of  the  hill  for  a  view  of  Monterey.  Can  this  beau¬ 
tiful  city,  looking  as  though  it  were  one  great  garden  with  white 
walled  palaces  and  orange  groves  of  green  and  gold  be  the  city  of 
narrow  streets  and  blank  walls  we  saw  when  below?  It  is  even  so, 
and  when  we  are  tempted  to  call  Monterey  monotonous  and  uninter¬ 
esting  we  will  remember  our  view  of  it  from  the  Bishop’s  Palace. 
Do  not  begin  the  descent  yet.  Stand  quietly  and  lift  your  eyes  above 
the  city  just  north  of  Cerro  de  la  Silla.  The  moon  is  rising,  a  lum¬ 
inous  sphere  of  silver.  Turn  to  the  west.  The  Cerro  de  las  Mitras 


8 


Mission  Stories 


are  outlined  against  the  sky  in  the  clear  rose  of  the  afterglow,  while 
just  above  the  mountain  hangs  the  evening  star,  mingling  its  golden 
radiance  with  the  rose  pink  of  the  afterglow. 

Surely  the  Lord  is  in  this  holy  temple  of  nature.  We  will  be 
silent  before  Him  ere  we  go  below  into  the  dust  and  noise  of  the  city. 

CRIPPLED  JOE 

By  A.  G,  ALDERMAN 

Poor  crippled  Joe  lives  just  across  the  street  from  our  Mission 
in  Monterey.  In  Spanish  his  name  is  Jose',  and  it  is  pronounced 
“Ho-sa'y.”  When  Joe  was  a  tiny  five-year-old  boy  he  went  one  day 
with  his  father  to  the  station  to  bring  a  load  of  lumber.  The  sun 
was  not  yet  up  when  they  started  to  the  far-away  station,  and  the 
morning  was  cool  and  refreshing.  The  big  ox-cart  trundled  slowly 
beneath  the  aguacate  trees  that  lined  the  roadside,  and  hundreds  of 
pretty  birds  were  ready  to  bid  them  good  morning.  Huge  clusters 
of  date  blossoms  united  with  still  more  fragrant  orange  blossoms  to 
sweeten  the  summer  air,  and  along  the  roadside  ran  a  great  irri¬ 
gating  ditch  full  of  sparkling  water,  fresh  from  the  lofty  mountains. 
Joe  had  never  traveled  so  far  from  home,  nor  seen  so  many  beautiful 
things,  and  though  you  would  think  an  ox-cart  a  clumsy  means  of 
locomotion,  Joe  had  never  seen  anything  better,  and  he  was  quite 
content  to  jog  along  until  the  shadows  had  crept  close  up  under  the 
wheels. 

At  length  the  road  turned  abruptly  across  the  irrigating  ditch. 
The  big  oxen  plunged  in  up  to  their  sides  and  stopped  to  drink.  Joe 
thought  it  was  fine  sport  to  watch  the  water  running  swiftly  under 
the  cart,  and  to  see  the  thirsty  oxen  expand  as  they  drank  eagerly 
from  the  cold  stream. 

Then  they  came  to  the  railroad — the  first  that  Joe  had  ever  seen. 
The  whistle  of  a  locomotive  was  heard  away  in  the  distance,  and 
Joe’s  papa  pointed  away  down  the  track,  saying,  “There  comes  a 
train!”  But  Joe  had  very  little  idea  of  what  the  word  train  meant, 
and  before  he  had  time  to  ask  any  questions  the  train  went  roaring 
by.  “Tengo  miedo!”  (I  am  afraid!)  said  Joe,  as  he  crouched  behind 
his  papa,  trembling  like  a  leaf  in  the  wind.  Joe  called  it  the  “fire 
wagon,”  and  for  a  long  time  it  was  a  mystery  to  him  how  any 
wagon  could  go  so  fast  without  any  oxen  hitched  to  it. 

At  last  the  station  was  reached.  The  sheaves  of  wheat  that  had 
served  as  cushions  were  now  given  to  the  hungi  >  oxen,  and  Joe  and 


Mission  Stories 


9 


his  papa  sat  down  to  eat  their  corn-cakes  and  cold  beans  in  the  shade 
of  a  great  tree.  Soon  they  were  discovered  by  some  old  friends  who 
shared  their  dinner  with  them  and  brought  in  return  several  bottles 
of  liquor  that  the  men  seemed  to  like  very  much,  and  that  seemed 
to  make  them  very  merry.  Joe  thought  he  would  like  to  taste  it, 
but  the  men  did  not  offer  him  any,  and  they  grew  so  boisterous  that 
he  was  afraid  to  ask  for  it. 

After  they  had  drunk  and  told  strange  stories  for  a  long  time, 
the  oxen  were  hitched  up  to  the  cart  and  driven  up  beside  a  flat-car 
loaded  with  long,  heavy  planks.  These  were  laid  upon  the  cart,  the 
long  ends  passing  between  the  oxen  and  several  feet  in  front  of  them, 
and  resting  upon  the  yoke.  Then  Joe  was  left  with  the  oxen  in  the 
sun  while  the  men  went  into  a  neighboring  cantina  (saloon)  to  drink 
more  mescal.  They  remained  a  long  time,  and  when  they  came  out, 
Joe  saw  that  his  papa  could  hardly  walk,  and  he  thought  he  must  be 
very  ill.  The  men  embraced  each  other,  and  then  they  talked  a  long 
time,  then  embraced  again,  and  Anally  Joe  was  placed  upon  the 
great  load  of  lum.ber,  and  his  papa  climbed  up  beside  him. 

Joe  was  glad  to  get  started  for  home,  for  he  felt  that  something 
Avas  wrong,  though  he  could  not  understand  it.  His  papa  began  to 
prod  the  oxen  fiercely  Avith  the  sharp,  steel-pointed  goad,  and  they 
started  down  the  slope  at  a  gallop.  Joe  was  terribly  frightened,  and 
he  thought  they  must  be  going  nearly  as  fast  as  the  “Are  wagon.” 
After  a  while  his  papa’s  zeal  gave  Avay  to  drowsiness,  and  he  was 
soon  sound  asleep.  The  oxen  knew  that  they  were  going  toAvard 
home,  and  for  a  long  time  they  kept  on  their  way,  though  the  load 
Avas  heavy  and  they  made  very  slow  time.  Night  came  on,  and  Joe 
rubbed  his  eyes  and  yaAvned.  He  was  hungry  and  thirsty,  but  he 
soon  fell  asleep. 

The  oxen  grew  very  tired  and  thirsty,  and  Anally  Avhen  they  came 
to  a  little  bridge  Avhere  a  stream  of  water  crossed  the  road,  they 
made  an  eager  plunge  for  the  Avater,  causing  one  Avheel  of  the  cart 
to  miss  the  bridge.  Joe  awoke  Avith  a  sharp  cry  of  pain  to  And 
himself  pinned  fast  between  the  great  cart  wheel  and  the  stone  curb¬ 
ing  of  the  little  stream.  His  leg  was  crushed  and  broken,  and  he 
tried  in  vain  to  pull  it  loose.  His  papa  had  fallen  off  beside  him, 
but  he  was  so  drunk  that  the  fall  did  not  awake  him.  You  will  not 
wonder  that  poor  little  Joe  thought  he  should  die.  He  cried  and 
cried,  and  called  to  his  papa  and  mamma  all  through  the  long  dark 
night,  but  no  one  heard  him.  Sometimes  he  would  almost  fall  asleep. 
Then  the  uncomfortable  oxen  Avould  struggle  again,  and  he  would 
scream  Avith  pain.  It  seemed  to  him  like  an  age  before  the  welcome 


10 


Mission  Stories 


light  began  to  dawn  in  the  east.  Then  he  thought  that  mamma 
would  soon  come.  But  suddenly  everything  seemed  to  grow  dark, 
and  he  knew  no  more  until  several  hours  later  when  he  awoke  to 
find  his  frightened  mamma  bending  over  him  in  the  little  cane  hut 
that  they  called  their  home.  Oh,  how  glad  he  was  to  see  her !  Her 
black  face  looked  to  him  like  the  face  of  an  angel,  and  he  almost 
forgot  the  terrible  pain  in  his  joy  at  being  at  home. 

There  was  no  money  to  pay  a  doctor.  It  had  all  been  spent  for 
tlie  terrible  liquor  that  had  caused  all  the  trouble.  The  neighbors 
had  gathered  in  and  there  was  great  excitement,  but  no  one  knew 
just  what  to  do,  so  poor  Joe  suffered  on.  Finally  they  thought  of  a 
farmer  near  by  who  had  some  means,  and  one  of  them  ran  in  great 
haste  to  him.  When  he  heard  the  pitiful  story  of  Joe’s  misfortune, 
he  sent  a  servant  galloping  to  the  town  ten  miles  away  to  bring  a 
doctor.  Night  had  come  again  before  the  doctor  arrived.  W’hen  he 
saw  Joe  he  shook  his  head  gravely,  but  went  to  work  to  save  the 
little  sufferer’s  life.  It  was  impossible  to  save  the  crushed  and 
broken  leg,  and  that  is  why  Joe  has  a  clumsy  wooden  leg. 

Joe’s  father  went  on  from  bad  to  worse,  and  finally  filled  a  drunk¬ 
ard’s  grave;  but  Joe  has  never  forgotten  the  terrible  experience  by 
which  he  learned  the  horrors  of  strong  drink,  and  he  is  a  sober,  in¬ 
dustrious  lad.  We  see  him  going  about  the  streets  every  day.  He 
is  selling  charcoal,  and  that  is  the  way  he  supports  his  widowed 
mother  and  her  family  of  children.  From  his  door  he  can  hear  the 
songs  in  our  Sunday  school,  and  we  have  asked  him  to  come  and  sit 
beside  another  boy  with  a  wooden  leg,  so  that  together  they  may 
learn  of  our  Savior  who  made  the  lame  to  walk,  and  who  taught  us 
how  to  reach  that  Home  where  sorrow  never  comes. 

DOES  IT  PAY? 

By  JESSIE  CLAIRE  GLASIER 

’Nita  was  a  little  Mexican  girl,  brown,  dirty  and  bare-legged. 
’Nita’s  mother  was,  if  possible,  browner  and  dirtier  than  she.  ’Nita 
could  remember  when  her  mother  wore  gay  earrings  and  a  red  ribbon 
in  her  black  braids,  and  she  herself  sometimes  had  a  pair  of  shoes  for 
feast  days  and  other  great  occasions — and  perhaps  a  square  of  sweet¬ 
meats  to  munch.  But  that  was  while  father  was  alive,  peddling 
goats’  milk  from  house  to  house.  Then  came  the  awful  fever  and 
carried  off  the  milk-seller,  Francisco,  and  his  two  younger  children. 
Now  there  were  no  ribbons  or  sweets — not  much  in  life  but  rags  and 
dirt,  and  cuffs  and  harsh  words  when  the  mother  had  drunk  more 
pulque  than  usual. 


M i s  si  0  n  Stories 


11 


Then  one  day  ‘‘Miswite”  came,  and  the  world  was  changed.  “Oh, 
mother!  There  is  a  lady  like  the  face  of  the  Moly  Mother  Mary 
that  hangs  over  our  bed,’’  ‘Nita  cried,  bursting  into  the  filthy  little 
court  where  her  mother  knelt  on  the  bare  ground,  mixing  iortillas — 
the  thin  corn-meal  cakes  that  served  for  most  of  their  meals.  “Such 
eyes,  mother!  And  hair  like  the  sun!  And  she  asked  me  to  come 
and  hear  the  music — there  is  a  school  and  they  sing — little  children 
like  me.  And  it  matters  not  I  have  no  shoes — she  said  so.  She  said 
to  come  and  ask  for  ‘Miswite.’  Say  I  may,  mother,  let  me  go,”  ’Nita 
pleaded,  wringing  her  dark  little  hands,  while  her  great  black  eyes 
glowed  with  excitement. 

It  could  do  no  harm,  the  mother  reckoned.  These  rich  Americanos 
often  spent  money  on  the  children  they  happened  to  fancy.  No  doubt 
this  beautiful  lady  with  the  fair  skin  and  hair  of  gold  had  come  from 
the  great  land  of  plenty  to  the  northward.  And  so  Miss  White, 
whose  name  had  jumbled  itself  so  sadly  in  ’Nita’s  little  head,  won  her 
most  faithful  pupil. 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  ecstasy  on  the  little  Mexican  girl’s 
face  when  she  first  heard  the  songs  the  children  sang,  grouped  around 
the  little  organ  “Miswite”  played  with  such  spirit.  And  no  one  could 
have  learned  faster  than  she  did  to  strike  the  right  note  in  her  clear, 
bird-like  soprano.  Other  things  she  learned,  too — that  it  was  worth 
the  trouble  of  carrying  heavy  pails  of  water  a  long  way  to  look  clean 
and  fresh  and  worthy  of  the  white  dress  her  teacher  promised  her. 
Also,  that  the  good  Lord  would  rather  that  a  poor  milk-peddler’s 
widow  spent  her  few  silver  pieces  to  keep  herself  and  her  child  clothed 
and  fed  instead  of  paying  them  to  the  priest  to  have  masses  said  for 
her  dead  husband’s  soul.  ’Nita  learned,  too,  that  a  little  girl  might 
earn  silver  bits  of  her  own  by  weaving  pretty  baskets  when  she  was 
not  learning — wonder  of  wonders — to  read  real  words  out  of  the  book 
“Miswite”  gave  her. 

As  for  the  mother,  her  heart  was  quite  won  by  the  white  dress 
that  made  her  little  ’Nita  look,  she  declared,  like  an  angel.  When 
work  was  found  for  her  in  the  laundry  that  was  connected  with  the 
mission  school,  her  gratitude  was  genuine  and  deep.  Now,  if  you 
could  look  in  any  Sunday  morning,  you  would  see  the  two,  mother 
and  little  daughter,  neatly  clothed  and  with  faces  shining,  listening 
together  to  God’s  word  and  joining  in  the  songs  that  tell  of  the  love 
of  Jesus.  If  you  asked,  “Does  it  pay  to  build  schools  and  churches 
in  Mexico!”  they  would  say  “Yes,”  most  heartily.  So  would  “Mis¬ 
wite.” 


12 


M i s  si  0 n  Stories 


A  GREAT  WOMAN 

By  MATTIE  POUNDS 

Pundita  Raniabai,  who  spent  some  time  in  America,  and  who  was 
so  warmly  greeted  in  every  city  she  visited,  is  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  women  now  living.  We  would  not  be  surprised  at  her 
great  fame  had  she  been  brought  up  in  this  land  whose  chief  glory 
is  that  it  gives  opportunity  to  all  whether  they  be  rich  or  poor, 
men  or  women,  to  make  the  most  possible  of  themselves  and  of  their 
lives;  or  in  England,  the  country  that  has  honored  all  womanhood 
and  honored  itself  by  the  love  and  loyalty  it  has  shown  its  noble 
queens;  but  that  a  daughter  of  India,  the  land  that  despises  and 
oppresses  its  women,  shuts  them  up  in  zenanas,  and  keeps  them  in 
ignorance,  should  have  become  such  a  famous  author,  lecturer  and 
philanthropist  as  to  be  known  throughout  all  three  of  these  countries 
seems  truly  wonderful. 

She  was  born  in  April,  1858,  in  a  great  forest  named  Gunga  Mai. 
Her  parents  had  been  driven  into  exile  because  her  father,  who  was 
a  learned  pundit  (teacher)  believed  that  women  should  be  educated, 
and  spoke  against  the  custom  of  child-marriage.  He  taught  his  own 
wife  until  she  became  an  educated  woman,  and  then  together  they 
taught  their  little  daughters.  Ramabai  must  have  been  a  very  apt 
pupil,  for  when  she  was  fifteen  years  of  age  she  could  read  and  speak 
the  Hindi,  Marathi,  Bengali,  Guzerathi  and  Sanscrit  languages. 

About  this  time  the  dreadful  famine,  known  as  the  ^‘India  famine 
of  1876,”  but  which  began  three  years  before  that  time,  began  to  be 
felt.  Ramabai  has  told  in  one  of  her  books  of  the  horrors  of  that 
time.  The  family  went  from  one  place  to  another  on  “holy  pilgrim¬ 
ages,”  as  they  are  called,  trying  to  get  the  false  gods  they  wor¬ 
shiped  to  help  them,  for  though  the  members  of  this  family  were 
intelligent  and  educated,  yet  they  were  heathens,  for  they  had  never 
heard  of  the  true  God.  Had  they  known  that  the  idols  could  not 
help  them,  and  remained  in  one  place,  instead  of  making  these  pil¬ 
grimages,  using  their  strength  in  work,  they  would  have  been  far 
better  ofl'.  As  it  was,  the  father  and  mother,  and  all  of  their  children 
but  Ramabai  and  one  son,  died  of  starvation. 

At  this  time  Ramabai  began  lecturing  on  female  education,  and, 
wonderful  as  it  may  seem,  the  people  not  only  permitted  her  to 
lecture,  but  listened  with  interest.  The  learned  men  of  Calcutta 
honored  her  by  conferring  upon  her  their  learned  degrees,  an  honor 
never  before  given  to  one  of  the  women  of  their  country. 


Mission  Stories 


13 


At  twenty  years  of  age  she  married  a  good  man  who  approved  of 
her  work  and  assisted  her  in  it.  The  days  seemed  very  bright  and 
happy  and  she  felt  that  she  was  doing  much  to  help  the  poor  women 
of  her  country.  But  in  less  than  two  short  years  her  husband  died, 
and  she  became  what  is  considered  in  India  the  most  degraded  of  all 
beings — a  widow. 

Instead  of  yielding  to  despair,  as  other  widows  do  in  that  coun¬ 
try,  she  employed  her  time  in  the  seclusion  into  which  she  was  forced 
in  writing  books.  These  books  had  such  a  large  sale  that  she  soon 
had  money  enough  to  make  a  journey  to  England,  the  land  of  which 
the  wonderful  story  was  told  that  all  the  women  living  in  it  were 
loved  and  well-treated. 

But  no  Hindu  woman — much  less  a  Hindu  widow — had  ever  made 
a  journey  to  a  foreign  country.  The  friends  of  Ramabai  were 
ashamed  because  she  thought  of  doing  such  a  thing  and  urged  her 
to  give  it  up.  But  she  said  she  must  learn  the  customs  of  a  country 
that  treated  its  women  and  girls  so  well. 

One  of  the  first  things  she  saw  in  England  was  a  home  for  home¬ 
less  women  which  some  Christian  people  had  founded.  She  looked 
at  it  with  wonder.  She  said  to  herself,  ‘‘Well,  this  is  a  new  kind  of 
a  religion,  which  gives  a  home  to  the  poor  and  the  outcast.  The 
sacred  books  of  the  East  tell  us  that  help  is  only  to  be  given  to  the 
wise  and  the  good,  and  command  very  different  treatment  for  the 
weak  and  the  helpless!”  She  began  at  once  a  study  of  the  Christian 
religion  and  after  a  short  time  was  baptized  into  Christ. 

The  people  everywhere  were  delighted  with  her.  She  was  made 
Professor  of  Sanscrit  in  Cheltenham  College,  where  she  taught  for 
three  years.  In  the  meantime  a  desire  had  grown  up  in  her  heart  to 
found  a  home  for  outcast  widows  in  India.  She  came  to  America  to 
lecture  on  the  condition  of  the  women  of  India.  The  people  every¬ 
where  heard  her  gladly,  and  about  $15,000  was  raised  with  which  to 
found  a  Widows’  Home.  She  returned  to  India  in  1889,  secured  a 
fine  location  at  Poona,  and  erected  a  good  building. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  recent  famine  there  were  sixty  widows 
living  in  the  home.  Ramabai  remembered  how  much  she  and  her 
friends  had  suffered  during  the  other  famine,  and  made  a  tour  of 
the  country  to  relieve  widows  and  deserted  wives. 

During  this  tour  she  visited  our  station  at  Mahoba,  leaving  some 
little  girls,  whom  she  had  found  by  the  way,  at  the  Orphanage,  and 
taking  away  some  widows  who  were  there.  In  the  account  of  her 
travels  she  speaks  in  the  highest  terms  of  Miss  Graybiel  and  others 
of  our  missionaries.  She  now  has  three  hundred  widows  in  her  home. 


14 


Mission  Stories 


On  November  15,  1897,  a  remarkable  baptismal  service  was  held 
there.  A  missionary  who  assisted  writes :  “It  was  a  novel  and  in¬ 
teresting  sight,  when  seventeen  bullock-carts  crowded  with  seven  and 
eight  women  in  each,  started  out  for  the  Bheema  river,  five  and  one- 
half  miles  distant  from  the  farm.  Songs  of  joy  arose,  one  after 
another,  as  they  slowly  went  along.  A  tent  was  pitched  on  the  bank 
of  the  river,  which  served  as  a  dressing-room.  A  short  service  was 
held,  after  which  the  baptisms  took  place.  Pundita  Ramabai’s 
Brahman  secretary  ( who  was  baptized  on  October  26,  together  with 
a  large  number  of  widows  in  Poona)  stood  in  the  water  and  helped 
the  candidates  to  enter  and  return  to  the  shore.  One  of  the  school¬ 
mistresses  on  the  shore  called  out  the  names  of  those  to  be  baptized. 
It  was  very  interesting  to  hear  each  one  repeat,  with  the  minister, 
‘In  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost.’ 
The  happy  faces  and  frequent  expressions  of  praise  showed  that  the 
Spirit  teaches  His  children  alike  the  world  over,  for  these  women 
had  never  come  in  contact  with  many  Christians,  revivals,  or  bap¬ 
tismal  services.  One  hundred  and  eight  women  and  girls  and  one 
boy  of  twelve  years  of  age  were  baptized.” 


AN  UNFORTUNATE 

By  BERTHA  F.  LOHR 

The  sun  had  again  been  sending  his  hot  rays  over  the  plains  of 
India.  The  whole  day  the  heat  had  been  very  great.  Now  it  was 
beginning  to  get  cooler.  The  evening  shadows  advanced  more  and 
more  and  announced  to  the  poor,  languishing  people  the  longed-for 
refreshing  coolness  of  the  night. 

At  this  time  a  fourteen-year-old  herds’  boy  was  driving  his 
father’s  cattle  home.  He  seemed  to  be  very  happy  for  he  was  merrily 
whistling  all  the  way.  All  the  people  had  quit  working  in  the  small 
Indian  village  and  were  getting  ready  for  the  feast  which  the  father 
of  the  above  mentioned  boy,  whom  we  will  call  Mangal,  was  to  give. 
It  seems  to  the  boy  that  the  buffaloes  and  cows  are  walking  very 
slowly  tonight.  He  was  so  impatient  to  get  home,  for  already  he 
could  hear  the  sound  of  the  music  coming  to  him  from  his  father’s 
house  and  several  times  he  had  been  trying  to  get  the  leader  of  the 
herd,  a  very  thin  and  miserable  looking  cow,  to  walk  quicker,  but  all 
in  vain.  She  does  not  understand  the  impatience  and  haste  of  the 
boy  which  he  manifests  today,  and  is  not  to  be  brought  out  of  her 
usual  leisurely  walk. 


Mission  Stories 


15 


Now  the  boy  is  getting  somewhat  angry.  “I  will  make  her  go,” 
lie  thinks,  and  throws  his  stick  after  her.  But  oh,  how  dreadful! 
Ihe  stick  goes  the  wrong  way,  and  a  small  calf  falls  bleeding  to  the 
ground.  Frightened,  the  poor  boy  runs  to  the  place  and  tries  to  help 
bis  little  favorite  on  its  feet;  but  his  stick  had  hit  a  dangerous  place. 
One  more  convulsive  movement  and  then  its  young  life  had  ended. 

Wild  thoughts  now  go  through  the  head  of  the  poor  little  crim¬ 
inal.  He  knows  too  well  what  dreadful  punishment  awaits  him  for 
his  olfense;  he  knows  the  penalty  by  which  only  he  can  be  cleansed 
from  his  sin.  For  a  moment  he  thinks  that  he  may  be  able  to  keep 
the  accident  a  secret,  but  other  people  have  been  witnessing  the  scene 
and  some  are  already  running  screaming  and  excited  into  the  house 
of  the  unfortunate  boy’s  parents,  bringing  the  fearful  news  to  the 
frightened  father:  “Thy  son  has  killed  a  calf!”  Terrified,  the  father 
runs  to  the  place.  The  mother  follows  him  with  loud  lamentations. 
She  takes  the  trembling  boy  in  her  arms  and  says,  crying:  “Oh! 
my  boy,  how^  could  you  do  such  a  dreadful  thing?  Now  the  gods 
will  hate  you  and  their  curse  will  be  upon  you,  if  you  do  not  fulfill 
ihe  penalty  wdiich  the  law  prescribes!  You  will  have  to  leave  us 
this  very  day,  and  only  after  five  years  can  we  receive  you  again. 
0  my  heart  is  almost  breaking!” 

The  wailing  people  lead  him  out  of  the  village,  and  then  they  give 
him  a  small  vessel  and  a  staff  in  his  hand;  and  now  he  is  alone,  cast 
out  of  his  father’s  house  and  out  of  his  village,  forsaken  by  all  w^hom 
he  loves.  The  unspeakable  misfortune  which  has  come  upon  the 
hitherto  happy  boy  is  almost  more  than  he  can  bear.  During  five 
long  years  he  wdll  have  to  provide  for  himself,  and  in  all  this  time 
not  a  w^ord  mmst  pass  his  lips;  he  can  only  imitate  the  bleating  of  a 
calf;  only  in  this  way  he  is  allowed  to  make  known  his  wants  to  the 
people.  This  is  the  awful  punishment  which  is  prescribed  by  the  law 
for  his  offense.  But  although  it  seems  almost  impossible  to  bear  his 
hard  lot,  he  will  not  resist  the  will  of  the  gods,  but  he  will  try  to 
appease  their  anger  by  faithfully  performing  his  penance.  It  is 
impossible  for  him  to  go  much  farther  today.  It  is  dark  now;  he 
can  hear  the  sounds  of  the  drums  and  the  loud  lamentations  of  his 
father’s  guests,  who  help  him  to  bewail  his  son’s  misfortunes,  and, 
sobbing,  the  poor  outcast  boy  sinks  down  beneath  a  palm  tree,  for¬ 
saken  by  men,  at  enmity  with  his  gods,  and  unacquainted  with  the 
dear,  loving.  Heavenly  Father. 

Early  the  next  morning  he  awakes,  a  little  strengthened  by  the 
sleep  he  has  had.  and  begins  his  long  journey  with  courage  and 
energy.  First,  he  has  to  visit  the  Ganges  to  wash  away  his  sins  in 


16 


Mission  Stories 


the  waters  of  this  holy  river.  We  wonder  if  he  will  not  starve  to 
death,  or  be  torn  to  pieces  by  some  wild  animal. 

But  after  three  years  we  meet  him  again — his  clothes  are  hanging 
from  his  body  in  rags,  his  cheeks  are  hollow,  and  his  feet  are  sore 
and  tired  with  much  walking.  Slowly  he  comes  toward  our  veranda 
and  it  seems  as  if  he  is  going  to  ask,  “Can  you  not  help  me  at  last? 
How  often  have  I  been  driven  away,  been  cursed  and  shamefully 
treated.”  The  expression  of  pain  on  his  face,  his  sore  knees,  which 
show  us  how  much  he  has  been  praying  before  idols,  the  inarticulate 
sounds  by  which  he  tries  to  make  himself  understood — by  all  this 
we  know  at  once  whom  we  have  before  us,  and  it  reveals  to  us  a  long, 
sad  story.  He  is  asked  many  questions,  but  not  a  word  comes  from 
his  lips.  If  he  breaks  the  law  he  will  have  to  suffer  for  it  after¬ 
wards.  Lovingly  he  is  told  about  the  Lord  Jesus,  and  asked  to  be¬ 
come  His  disciple  and  follow  Him,  but  to  this  he  answers  only  by 
shaking  his  head.  So  we  are  not  able  to  help  the  poor  boy;  we  have 
to  let  him  go  from  us  with  bleeding  hearts.  May  the  dear  Heavenly 
Father  be  merciful  unto  him. 

The  dear  friends  in  the  homeland,  who  read  this  little  story,  will 
receive  an  idea  of  the  impenetrable  darkness  in  which  the  poor 
Hindus  are  yet  languishing.  The  ground  is  yet  hard  and  unfruit¬ 
ful,  although  much  labor  has  been  spent  in  trying  to  make  it  soft 
and  yielding.  But  we  shall  work  on  with  the  happy  assurance  that 
the  Lord  will  bless  the  work  which  is  done  in  His  name  and  for  His 
sake,  and  our  heart  rejoices  in  the  thought  that  “with  God  nothing 
is  impossible.”  May  He  help  us  to  remain  faithful  to  the  end. 

BALLO 

By  HELEN  L.  JACKSON 

It  was  that  happy  time  which  we  who  love  Jesus  call  “Christ¬ 
mas.”  Hot  so  happy,  though,  to  the  poor  little  hoys  and  girls  of 
India,  because,  for  one  thing,  they  know  nothing  of  the  dear  Jesus 
whose  birthday  into  this  world  we  celebrate  with  so  much  joy. 
Then  another  reason  is  this — the  poor  little  boys  and  girls  of  India 
— hundreds  and  thousands  of  them — can  not  find  enough  to  eat.  So 
it  happened  that,  just  at  the  time  when  you,  dear  children,  were 
full  of  glee  in  anticipation  of  lots  of  fun,  presents  and  good  things 
to  eat,  two  little  ones— Ballo  and  her  brother,  Mullu — were  trudging, 
with  weary  little  feet,  from  village  to  village,  seeking  food. 

But  all  in  the  villages  were  nearly  as  poor  as  they  themselves, 
so  they  joined  a  party  of  poor,  starving  people,  who  were  traveling 


M  i  s  s  i  0  n  S  i  o  r  i  e  s 


17 


to  Hurda.  They  had  no  house  to  go  to,  and  knew  no  one  in  the  town, 
so  they  dropped  their  little  bundle  of  rags  (which  they  call  a 
“bechona,”  a  bed)  under  a  tree  on  the  hanks  of  the  river,  and  made 
that  their  home. 

But  the  long,  weary  trudge  in  the  hot  sun  had  been  too  much  for 
poor  little  Ballo  and  she  lay  down  under  the  tree  with  a  throbbing 

headache  and  burning  fever.  All  day  long  the  cruel  fever  burned, 

« 

and  her  poor  little  lips  were  parched  with  thirst,  while  her  legs  and 
back  ached,  oh!  so  badly. 

There  was  no  kind  mamma  to  take  her  in  her  arms  and  soothe 
her  pain,  and  there  was  not  even  any  one  to  go  to  the  river  and  bring 
her  some  water  to  drink,  because  her  brother  Mullu  had  gone  off  to 
try  and  beg  some  food  for  himself  and  little  sister. 

So  she  lay  there  all  alone  until,  as  night  was  drawing  on,  Mullu 
came  back. 

“Ballo,”  says  he,  “there  is  a  lady  living  in  a  bungalow,  a  long 
way  from  here,  and  she  gave  me  some  curry  and  rice  to  eat;  and  see, 
I  have  brought  some  for  you.  But  she  says  she  won’t  give  me  any 
more  unless  I  take  you  along.” 

“But  I  can’t  go,  brother,  my  legs  ache  so  much,  and  when  I  stand 
up  I  feel  all  dizzy.  And  I  don’t  want  the  food — you  eat  it — only  get 
me  sonie  water.”  Boor  little  Ballo,  she  was  too  sick  to  eat,  but  she 
drank  the  water  which  Mullu  brought  in  their  brass  lota— the  only 
thing  of  any  worth  which  they  possessed. 

So  these  two  little  lambs,  for  whom  the  dear  Savior  gave  His  life, 
rolled  themselves  up  in  their  poor  rags,  covered  their  heads  over  that 
they  might  not  see  anything  that  might  come  to  startle  them,  and 
lay  all  night  out  there  in  the  dark  alone.  Did  I  say  “alone”?  Oh, 
no !  they  were  not  alone !  Do  you  remember,  dear  children,  that 
verse  which  tells  of  our  Savior’s  words:  “For  I  sav  unto  vou,  that 
their  angels  do  always  behold  the  face  of  my  Father  which  is  in 
heaven.”  Yes,  although  no  one  saw  them,  there  were  two  bright, 
beautiful  angels  watching  over  those  little  forms  down  by  the  river. 

The  next  morning  Ballo  began  to  cough  and  had  a  strange  pain 
in  her  chest,  then  she  felt  so  tired — always  tired — and  she  could  not 
walk  that  long  distance  to  see  the  lady  who  had  given  brother  such 
nice  food.  So  he  went  off  again  and  left  her  by  the  river. 

“Ballo,  you  must  come  with  me  tomorrow,  for  the  lady  thinks 
that  I  am  telling  lies  when  I  tell  her  that  I  have  a  little  sister  to 
feed.  She  thinks  that  I  just  say  so  to  get  a  double  share  of  food.” 

So  the  next  day,  with  her  brother’s  aid,  little  Ballo  came  to  my 
bungalow.  Poor  little  mite!  How  thin  she  looked!  Her  poor  arms 


18 


M  i  s  s  io  )i  S  t  0  r  i  e  s 


wore  like  two  sticks,  and  her  legs  the  same;  her  cheeks  were  sunken 
in,  and  her  hig,  black  eyes  looked  out  so  mournfully.  1  fed  them 
both  that  day,  and  tried  to  induce  them  to  stop  with  me,  instead  of 
going  back  to  the  lonely  river.  But,  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  you, 
they  did  not  want  to. 

For  several  days  I  saw  no  more  of  them,  and  I  was  busy  with 
many  extra  duties  which  Christmas  brought  with  it,  hut  one  evening, 
a  day  or  two  after  Christmas  day,  on  returning  to  the  bungalow 
rather  late,  I  saw  on  my  veranda  what  seemed  like  a  heap  of  rags. 
But  going  ii})  to  it  1  found,  under  the  rags,  Mullu  and  Ballo  fast 
asleep ! 

1  put  my  hand  on  the  hoy,  and  he  jumped  up,  saying,  “Salaam.” 
But  Ballo  was  in  a  high  fever,  and  hardh"  recognized  any  one. 

“We  have  come  to  stop,”  said  Mullu;  “Ballo  is  sick,  and  can  not 
walk,  and  I  don’t  know  what  to  do.  There  is  a  man  up  there  who 
keeps  a  drink-shop — he  wanted  to  keep  us,  hut  I  know  he  would  beat 
us  and  make  us  work  hard,  and  so  we  came  to  vou  for  fear  he  would 
get  us.” 

“I  am  glad  you  have  come,”  said  I,  “for  your  poor  little  sister  is 
very  sick,  and  needs  good  food  and  good  medicine.”  So  they  “came 
to  stop,”  and  in  a  little  while,  after  careful  nursing,  Ballo’s  little 
cheeks  began  to  fill  out  nice  and  round;  she  was  able  to  run  and 
])lay,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  with  health  and  happiness,  and  her  laugh 
was  the  merriest  on  my  compound. 

Such  a  happy,  contented  little  maiden,  and  full  of  love  and  affec¬ 
tion  for  “Mama  je,”  as  she  called  me.  “I’ll  never  leave  you  mamma! 
never!  You  gave  me  good  medicine,  and  made  me  well— and  I  love 
A'ou” — this  with  a  loving  little  hug. 

But  for  Ballo’s  sake  I  thought  it  best  that  she  should  leave  me. 
So,  when  INliss  Judson  was  going  to  Mahoba,  Ballo’s  things  were  got 
ready,  too,  and  now  she  is  a  happy  little  girl  among  lots  of  other 
little  girls  who,  like  her,  have  been  rescued  from  death. 

“Cod  bless  our  dear  little  Ihillo!”  T  sav,  “and  make  her  a  true 
sei’vant  of  the  dear  Lord  Jesus” — and  I  know  vou  will  all  sav  Amen! 

t 

THE  FACE  IN  THE  LOOKING-GLASS 

By  A,  E.  G. 

A  missionary  sat  one  hot  summer  afternoon  beneath  the  veranda 
of  the  mission  house  reading,  when,  suddenly  looking  up,  she  was 
startled  to  find  herself  being  intently  r(‘garded  by  a  ])air  of  eager  eyes 


.1/  i  s  s  i  0  n  8  i  o  r  i  e  s 


19 


belonging,  it  seemed  to  her  at  first,  to  some  sort  of  monkey,  for  the 
owner  of  tlie  eager  eyes  began  in  an  ecjually  eager  voice,  and  in 
broken  English,  ‘'Lady,  tell  poor  black  girl  about  the  good  God  of 
whom  you’ve  come  over  the  great  sea  to  teach”;  and  the  face  was 
upturned  to  the  missionary  with  a  wistful,  yearning  look. 

The  lady  looked  curiously  at  the  strange  figure  before  her.  Well 
might  she  have  taken  the  girl  fo  he  an  animal  rather  than  a  human 
being.  Imagine,  if  you  can,  a  little  stpiat  figure,  with  filthy  rags  of 
clothing  hanging  to  it,  face  and  hands  incrusted  with  dirt,  and  the 
unkempt,  matted  hair  really  gave  one  an  idea  of  a  wild  creature  of 
the  woods. 

And  yet  within  the  dark  heart  of  this  h(‘a.theii  child  was  a  deep 
longing,  so  real  and  so  earnest  that  she  had  overcome  fear  and 
timiditv,  and  had  come  from  her  unclean  dwelling  to  know  more 
from  the  lips  of  the  missionaries  of  the  Lord  and  Savior  of  whom  she 
had  heard  rumors  from  those  who  had  come  under  their  teachings. 

"Do  tell  poor  heathen  about  the  great  God,”  she  said  again,  for 
the  missionary  had  sat  without  making  reply  to  her  first  ap])ea!. 
She  had  been  thinking  how  and  what  she  should  answer. 

At  length  she  said,  "Come  to  me  tomorrow  at  this  time  aiul  you 
shall  know  what  you  wish.”  The  child  looked  her  thanks,  and  then, 
like  a  veritable  thing  of  the  woods,  hounded  away,  and  was  cpiickly 
out  of  sight.  1  he  missionary  sat  there  lost  in  thought,  and  soon 
from  her  heart  came  the  cry:  "0  God,  give  me  the  soul  of  this  poor 
herthen;  teach  me  what  I  shall  say  to  her;  help  me  that  I  may 
reach  her  understanding!” 

The  next  day  the  missionary  awaited  within  the  coming  of  the 
heathen  child.  At  length  she  saw  the  little  form  slowly  and  timidly 
approaching,  and  could  see  that  the  child  was  surprised  and  disap¬ 
pointed  at  not  seeing  her  beneath  the  veranda.  She  sent  the  native 
servant  forth  to  meet  the  child,  who  told  her  that  her  mistress  was 
within,  and  awaited  her  there.  The  little  form  drew  near  to  the 
house  and  entered,  following  the  servant.  The  missionary  called  the 
child  to  join  her  in  an  upper  room,  and  she  quickly  ascended  the 
stairs  to  the  place  whence  the  voice  proceeded. 

On  her  way  she  had  to  pass  through  a  room  in  which  hung  a 
large  mirror.  The  lady  suddenly  heard  a  loud,  piercing  scream,  and 
the  girl  rushed  breathless  into  her  presence,  nearly  fainting  with 
terror,  and  at  length  gasping,  “Why  didn’t  you  tell  me?”  as  she 
pointed  to  the  stairs  up  which  she  had  just  come.  Then  slowly  she 
explained,  when  the  missionary  had  soothed  away  her  fear,  how  that 
she  had  seen  in  the  I'oom  below,  as  she  passed  through,  a  terrible 


20 


Mi  s  sio  n  S  lories 


looking  wild  beast,  which  approached  her,  and  seemed  ready  to  spring 
upon  her. 

“But  there’s  no  wild  beast  there,”  said  the  lady.  “You  surely  are 
mistaken.” 

“No,  no,”  pleaded  the  girl,  “don’t  go,”  as  the  missionary 
descended  the  stairs  to  ascertain  the  cause  of  the  child’s  terror;  but 
finding  she  still  went  on,  the  child,  for  A^ery  fear  of  being  left  alone, 
followed  her. 

“Where?”  asked  the  missionary,  on  reaching  the  room  and  look¬ 
ing  around.  “Where  is  that  which  so  affrighted  you?” 

“There!  there!”  said  the  girl,  pointing  to  the  mirror,  Avherein 
were  reflected  her  face  and  form. 

“But  that’s  yourself  there,”  said  she,  “and  not  a  wild  animal  at 
all.” 

“Me!”  was  the  surprised  question. 

“Yes;  that’s  vour  own  face  there.” 

The  child  wonderingly  drew  near  and  gazed  at  her  form  in  the 
glass,  and,  when  the  truth  dawned  upon  her,  said  slowly:  “Dirty, 
horrible,  ugly!”  And  then,  turning  to  the  missionary,  “I’d  like  to 
be  clean,  lady.” 

When,  soon  afterward,  trim  and  clean,  Avith  the  long  unkempt 
hair  nicely  braided  up,  and  in  the  place  of  rags  of  clothing  a  pretty 
dress  AAdiich  the  mission  people  had  given  her,  the  girl  again  stood 
before  the  mirror,  she  dreAV  herself  up,  and  Avith  a  pleased,  beaming 
face,  kept  repeating,  “Clean  nOAAq  pretty  now,  neat  now!” 

“Yes,”  said  the  lady,  who  was  an  amused  spectator  of  it  all,  “but 
only  outside.” 

Then,  draAving  the  child  gently  toward  her,  she  told  her,  Avith 
love  in  her  tones,  of  the  spiritual  deformity  and  defilement;  to  all 
of  Avhich  the  child  listened  Avith  earnest  attention.  When  the  mis¬ 
sionary  had  ceased  speaking,  the  girl,  Avith  tears  in  her  eyes,  said 
the  old  Avords:  “I’d  like  to  be  clean,  lady.”  A  feAV  days  had  passed, 
and  the  girl  had  had  many  long  and  happy  talks  Avith  the  mission¬ 
ary,  Avhen  one  afternoon  she  cautiously,  almost  Avith  aAve  in  her  face, 
crept  up  the  staircase  once  again  and  stood  in  front  of  the  glass 
Avhich  had  before  been  such  a  source  of  terror.  The  missionary,  Avith 
joy  and  thankfulness  to  God  in  her  heart  for  the  Avondrous  Avay  in 
Avhich  lie  had  brought  this  little  one  to  Himself,  Avatched.  Looking 
at  her  face  and  figure,  noAV  so  bright  and  clean,  she  repeated,  “Clean, 
pretty,  neat”;  and  then,  while  heaven  itself  seemed  to  be  reflected 
in  the  SAveet  face,  “and  clean  inside,  too !  ” 


M  i  .s‘  s  i  0  n  8  t  0  r  i  e  s 


21 


My  little  tale  is  told.  Have  you  caught  its  meaning?  Have  you 
seen  yourselves  in  God’s  looking-glass — His  Word?  Have  you  been 
troubled  and  made  wretched  by  the  sight?  Can  you  say  today  with 
the  heathen  child,  “I’ve  been  cleansed?”  If  not,  come  at  once,  and 
let  your  prayer  be,  “Lord,  show  me  myself.”  When  that  is  answered, 
as  it  soon  will  be,  let  this  prayer  go  up  to  Him,  “Lord,  show  me 
Thyself,”  and  the  look  of  faith  at  Him  shall  save  you. 


BRANDING  A  GIRL  WIFE 

By  MATTIE  W.  BURGESS 

“In  the  Court  of  the  Third  Presidency  Magistrate  an  interesting 
case  of  cruelty  to  a  Hindu  girl  came  on  for  hearing,  but  terminated 
unexpectedly,  the  accused  escaping  punishment.  The  accused  were 
a  lad  of  seven  years  and  his  father,  the  former  being  the  brother-in- 
law  of  the  girl  and  the  latter  her  father-in-law.  They  were  charged 
with  having  branded  the  girl,  who  is  eleven  years  of  age,  and  the 
wife  of  another  son  of  the  second  accused.  In  opening  the  case  the 
following  facts  were  laid  before  the  court:  The  girl  was  given  some 
bread  to  bake.  She  was  sleepy  at  the  time,  it  being  8  o’clock  p.  m., 
and  while  dozing  the  bread  was  burnt.  This  made  the  father-in-law 
very  angry.  During  this  time  the  girl  had  been  chained  up,  both 
of  her  legs  being  shackled.  She  was  able  to  move  about  slowly. 
Upon  the  spoiling  of  the  bread  the  enraged  father-in-law  said  to 
the  boy,  ‘Burn  her.’  He  himself  then  placed  a  poker  in  the  fire. 
After  making  it  red  hot  he  gave  it  to  the  boy,  who  burned  the  girl. 
She  complained  to  her  mother  and  tvas  taken  to  the  hospital.  The 
police  were  informed  and  the  case  sent  up  after  due  incpiiry.  The 
poor  girl,  when  called,  gave  a  different  version,  and  the  court  re¬ 
luctantly  allowed  the  case  to  he  withdrawn.” 

How  often  such  cruelty  occurs  only  One  knows.  All  over  India 
the  little  wives  are  afraid  to  testify  against  their  husbands  or  their 
husband’s  people.  The  houses  of  the  fathers-in-law  are  the  only 
homes,  and  should  their  evidence  he  the  means  of  convicting  any 
member  of  a  family  their  later  tortures  and  sufferings  would  be  far 
worse  than  anything  yet  experienced.  And  yet  how  many  daughters 
sit  at  east  in  Zion! 


22 


M  i  s  s  i  0  n  t  0  r  i  e  s 


MISERABLE  HOMES  IN  INDIA 

By  OLIVIA  A.  BALDWIN 

Ihere  are  some  wealthy  people  in  India.  Hieir  homes  are  built 
of  stone  or  brick.  Ihere  are  no  frame  houses  there.  Timber  is  os 
scarce  that  a  frame  house  Avould  cost  more  than  one  of  brick. 

The  houses  of  the  poor  are  made  of  mud,  and  as  nearly  all  of  the 
people  are  poor,  mud  houses  are  the  rule.  Economy  must  be  used 
even  in  building  a  mud  house.  The  one-room  house  is  the  rule 
among  the  lower  castes.  This  one  room  is  often  not  more  than  ten 
or  twelve  feet  square.  At  each  corner  of  the  house,  on  the  outside, 
is  a  rough  post  or  sapling  as  a  support  for  the  mud  walls;  these 
walls  are  often  but  four  or  five  feet  high  except  at  the  gable  end. 

The  roofs  are  of  cheap  tile  or  grass  theatch,  the  framework  being 
made  of  bamboo  poles. 

The  doors  vary  with  the  height  of  the  wall.  Some  are  only  three 
feet  high  and  two  feet  wide.  Some  houses  have  no  doors — instead, 
a  piece  of  bamboo  matting  is  used  to  close  the  doorway  when  desired. 
When  a  door  can  not  be  afforded  the  doorway  is  made  unusually 
small.  Often  I  have  bumped  my  head  and  broken  my  pith  hat  be¬ 
cause  I  failed  to  steep  low  enough  in  going  in  or  out  at  these  crude 
doorways. 

Windows  are  not  considered  a  necessity  in  Indian  houses.  One 
window  to  a  house  is  ample  and  the  windows  are  usnally  not  more 
than  three  feet  wide  and  one  foot  high.  Glass  is  rarely  used. 
Wooden  bars  running  up  and  down  are  common.  In  cold  and  rainy 
weather  the  windows  are  closed  with  matting.  In  the  cold  season 
six  to  ten  people  sleep  in  one  room  with  the  window  and  door  closed. 
Fortunately  ventilation  is  secured  through  spaces  unintentionally 
left  between  the  top  of  the  walls  and  the  roof  of  the  house. 

d'he  houses  in  India  are  built  without  chimneys.  Stoves  are  not 
used.  A  crude  little  fireplace  Iti  a  corner  of  the  room  is  used  for 
cooking.  The  poor  can  not  afford  fire  for  heating  purposes. 

I  was  once  called  to  doctor  a  little  girl,  very  sick  with  pneumo¬ 
nia.  It  was  in  the  winter,  and  as  the  people  were  in  comfortable 
circumstances,  they  had  a  big  fire  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  It  was 
a  big  smoke,  rather.  I  could  stay  in  the  room  but  a  few  minutes  at 
a  time.  The  Indian  people  do  not  mind  smoke;  they  are  accustomed 
to  it.  They  were  trying  to  keep  the  sick  child  warm,  and  never  once 
thought  of  the  suffiocating  effect  of  the  smoke. 


J/  i  s  s  ion  iS  t  0  r  i  e  s 


2;j 


The  high  caste  people  in  India  must  liave  two  rooms,  even  if  they 
are  poor,  for  they  keep  tlieir  women  shut  up  and  must  have  a  room 
especially  for  thon.  it  is  considered  a  shame  for  a  woman  to  be 
seen  by  any  man  outside  of  her  own  family.  Often  girls  of  nine  or 
ten  3’ears,  when  married  or  betrothed,  are  shut  up.  This  cruel  cus¬ 
tom  prevents  the  girls  from  going  to  school  after  they  are  nine  or 
ten  years  old,  even  when  tlieir  people  are  willing  for  them  to  be 
educated.  The  purdah  (curtained)  girls  and  women  often  have  a 
little  back  yard,  siu-Kuinded  by  a  high  wall,  where  they  may  walk  or 
sit.  In  the  cities  many  are  deprived  of  even  this  much  of  out-of-door 
life;  so  the  homes  of  the  high  caste  and  the  wealthy,  even,  are  made 
miserable  bv  the  heathen  customs. 

Small  houses  can  be  built  in  India  for  from  $3  to  $5,  yet  many 
of  the  people  are  too  poor  to  own  or  to  rent  a  house,  and  live  out  of 
doors  except  during  the  rainy  season. 

So  gieat  was  the  poverty  of  the  people,  when  I  was  there,  that 
they  could  not  live  inside  of  even  such  a  house.  'Now,  on  account  of 
the  plague  and  the  famine,  the  poverty  and  the  suffering  are  ver} 
greatly  increased. 

How  thankful  we  should  be  for  our  comfortable,  happy  homes ! 
Hut  if  we  are  truly  thankful,  will  we  not  do  something  to  help  the 
people  of  India? 

In  C  hristian  lands,  any  such  poverty  and  suffering  is  impossible. 
Clod  has  promised  a  special  blessing  upon  His  people.  Then,  where 
people  love  Christ,  they  love  each  other  and  are  ready  to  help  each 
other.  In  heathen  lands,  the  missionaries  are  able  to  teach  the 
people  how  to  make  more  money,  and  ho^v  to  save  it,  that  they  may 
be  readv  for  the  time  of  trouble.  The  native  Christians  of  the  lower 

t/ 

castes  in  India  are  much  better  off'  than  their  heathen  brethren.  So, 
whenever  you  help  in  missionary  woik  you  help  to  convert  the  people 
to  Christ,  and  you  also  relieve  their  poverty  and  distress.  When  a 
high  caste  man  becomes  a  Christian,  he  no  longer  keeps  his  wife  shut 
up,  for  he  is  taught  that  this  is  wrong;  and  his  daughters  are  not 
married  when  children,  but  are  sent  to  school.  Do  you  see  how 
much  you  can  help?  TTw  to  do  more  for  the  Builders’  Fund  this 
year  chan  you  have  ever  done  before.  Save  your  nickels  and  dimes 
given  you,  and  try  to  earn  some  money  for  this  great  work. 

Remember  that  Jesus  said,  “Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto 
one  of  the  least  of  these  my  brethren,  ye  have  done  it  unto  Me.” 


24 


M i s  s i on  Stories 


A  BAPTISMAL  SCENE  AT  MAHOBA, 

INDIA 

By  ADELAIDE  GAIL  FROST 

Last  evening  ten  of  our  girls  were  buried  with  their  Savior  in 
baptism  in  the  sunset  waters  of  Kirat  lake.  It  was  a  beautiful  time 
in  the  day,  when  the  air  is  cool  and  the  glare  of  the  tropical  sun  has 
given  place  to  the  softly  fading  light  of  the  afterglow. 

All  the  larger  children  went  down  to  the  lakeside  two  by  two, 
softly  singing,  down  past  the  suttee  piles  and  temples,  which  did  not 
speak  any  language  to  these  little  souls  rescued  from  idolatry.  For 
them  it  is  “Jesus  only.”  They  stood  in  a  row  on  the  bank,  looking 
indeed  “chosen”  in  their  clean  dresses  and  neatly  braided  dark  hair. 
One  would  not  think  of  these  things  did  she  not  see  girls  running 
about  in  the  road  with  wild,  unkempt  hair,  and  a  rag  for  a  covering. 
There  was  dear  little  Rupiya  (“silver”),  whose  elder  sister,  Mam- 
bhai,  is  in  the  Orphanage  too.  Mambhai  had  a  high  fever  and  could 
not  go  last  night.  She  grieved  so  over  it,  but  told  Rupiya  she  need 
not  fear,  that  it  was  a  service  that  would  seem  good  to  her.  There 
was  Parmi,  who  came  to  us  only  a  little  over  two  years  ago,  a  thin, 
spiritless  child,  who  had  not  energy  to  smile.  I  see  her  yet  with  her 
shoulder  blades  protruding  through  the  rents  of  an  old  dress,  and  her 
face  with  the  old,  old  look.  She  can  laugh  and  sing  after  two  years; 
she  reads  in  the  Third  Hindi  Reader;  she  is  “like  other  children,” 
and  she  went  down  into  the  baptismal  waters  with  a  believing  and 
understanding  heart.  Each  of  the  ten  has  her  history,  I  wish  I 
could  tell  you  a  bit  about  each.  We  sang  “What  Can  Wash  Away 
My  Sin?”  and  “I  Will  Keep  Jesus  in  My  Lleart” — the  latter  has  a 
native  air.  Then,  as  the  last  was  being  baptized  and  the  sunset  glow 
was  fading  from  the  waters,  Ave  sang: 

“Abide  with  me,  fast  falls  the  eventide. 

The  darkness  deepens,  Lord  with  me  abide.” 

We  turned  homeward  where  the  glorious  full  moon  Avas  sending 
up  a  gloAV  behind  the  orphanage  and  I  saAV  the  girls,  Avho  have  been 
Christians  for  some  time,  kissing  the  cheeks  of  their  neAV  sisters  in 
Jesus.  As  Miss  Gordon  and  I  Avalked  back  together  AA^e  repeated  that 
beautiful  text  about  His  being  able  to  “keep.”  I  have  selected  this 
text  from  Colossians  for  these  ten  as  my  resolve  for  them:  “Labor- 
■ing  fervently  for  you  in  prayers,  that  ye  may  stand  perfect  and  com¬ 
plete  in  all  the  will  of  God.” 


M i s  si  0 n  S  t  o r i e s 


25 


A  TRIP  TO  INDIA  TO  DO  MISSION 
WORK — In  Three  Parts 

By  JOSEPHA  FRANKLIN 

PART  I.  TAKING  CARE  OF  THE  SICK 

Frank  Stockton,  I  think,  has  written  a  story  about  a  man  who 
had  power  to  transfer  his  aches  and  pains  upon  his  friends  simply 
by  thinking  of  them  very  liard.  I  have  gotten  an  idea  from  this, 
and  so,  dear  young  people,  will  try  to  get  relief  myself  a  while  by 
indicting  my  aches  and  pains  on  you.  I  will  even  go  farther.  I 
will  make  you  boys  and  girls  in  turn  come  to  India  and  share  my 
work  with  me.  Just  as  I  need  you  I  will  call  your  names.  But 
drst,  all  of  you  think:  Josepha  Franklin  has  dfty-three  children 
who  should  be  taught  dve  hours  a  day;  thirty-eight  babies,  some  of 
whom  need  attention  every  moment;  a  Christian  Endeavor  Society, 
the  members  of  which  need  unheard-of  teaching  and  preparing;  a 
Sunday  school  which  is  very  much  like  her  daily  Bible  class  in 
school;  a  house  to  be  kept;  and,  last  of  all,  her  own  health  to  take 
care  of. 

Mary  Brown,  you  are  a  strong  girl,  with  lots  of  good  sense. 
Wake  up!  You  are  in  India  now.  It  is  August,  1896.  Do  you 
hear  that  rain?  It  sounds  like  a  March  wind  at  home,  only  in 
addition  you  hear  a  sound  like  a  river  rolling.  What  makes  you  so 
sad?  You  are  thinking  of  the  babies — some  lame,  some  blind,  some 
deaf,  and  many  quite  well  in  their  mud  house  in  your  yard.  You 
are  grieving  that  all  can  not  have  warm  clothes;  that  they  will  be 
drenched  to  the  skin;  that  many  are  sick;  that  you  have  no  doctor 
to  help  you,  and  you  yourself  can  not  understand  the  sickness  of 
some,  and  can  not  help  others,  because  you  have  no  accommodations 
or  money.  But  chalo  (move)  !  You  can  not  waste  time  in  aimless 
grieving  with  so  much  work  on  hand.  The  rain  leaks  through  in 
every  room.  You  can  not  help  that — so  chalo  on.  You  say:  “Will 
the  rain  ever  stop?”  Streams  of  water  flow  everywhere,  and  your 
yard  has  turned  into  a  lake.  Put  on  your  heaviest  shoes,  your  rain¬ 
coat,  and  your  sun  topi  (hat).  This  last  is  necessary,  or  you  may 
get  a  sunstroke,  even  through  the  clouds.  Let  us  go  into  the  largest 
room  first,  and  take  a  look  at  the  children  in  it.  Now  you  are  dis¬ 
gusted  and  angry,  too.  Call  the  sweeper-woman,  who  should  have 
done  the  cleaning  up.  As  an  excuse  for  all  the  filth,  she  says  the 
water-man  has  not  yet  brought  the  water.  He  should  have  been  here 


M  i  s  s  i  0  ii  S  t  0  'T  i  e  s 


L>(; 


two  liours  ago.  So  she  has  not  done  any  of  lier  work.  On  a  bed, 
with  three  other  little  boys,  is  Bhura,  and  you  notice  that  he  has 
sure  signs  of  choleia.  And  there  are  twenty  other  babies  in  this 
)  ooni  crying  with  pain  and  hunger,  while  the  water  runs  in  streams 
on  the  dirt  door,  dell  the  sweeper-woman  to  put  all  the  boys  who 
aie  in  two  small  houses  into  one  immediately.  But  do  not  lose 
patience  if  she  takes  an  hour  to  do  it.  At  last  it  is  done.  Now  take 
your  poor  cholera-stricken  babe  to  the  empty  house,  and  do  what  you 
can  for  him. 

Bred  Starr,  you  hope  to  be  a  physician  and  surgeon  some  day,  so 
1  will  call  you.  You  must  prescribe  for  the  cholera  patient,  and  tell 
the  nurse  what  to  do.  Get  hot  water  for  his  feet.  Bring  Rubina’s 
camphor  and  give  it  every  ten  minutes.  Do  not  give  him  any  food. 
Rub  him  constantly  to  keep  up  a  circulation,  and  keep  him  between 
the  coarse  blankets  you  have  for  the  children.  Marv  is  to  watch 
him  closelv  for  a  week  or  two  if  he  does  not  die  before  that  time. 

t/ 

d  hen  if  he  gets  well,  she  must  fumigate  the  house  and  allow  no  one 
near  for  days.  As  she  never  saw  sickness  to  speak  of  until  she  came 
to  India,  this  is  enough  for  her. 

But,  Doctor  Fred,  you  must  come  and  see  my  starvelings,  and 
advise  me  how  to  save  their  lives.  This  child  is  Hera  Lai.  His 
mother  died  of  cholera  some  months  ago,  and  left  him  without  home 
or  friends.  He  could  walk  then,  but  he  can  not  take  a  step  now.  Do 
you  see  the  bones  coming  through  his  wrinkled  old  skin  ?  And  the 
hollow  holes  into  which  his  eyes  are  sunk  ?  Your  professional  knowl¬ 
edge  tells  you  that  this  child  is  dying — was  dying  when  he  came, 
d  hat  for  days  and  days  and  days — so  many  that  the  poor  mite  does 
not  know  when  they  began — hunger  gnawed  and  gnawed  his  stomach, 
d  hat  sometimes  he  ate  cow’s  food,  and  sometimes  a  bitter  berry,  and 
sometimes  the  skin  and  seed  of  fruit  thrown  away  by  wealthier  chil¬ 
dren.  Do  you  see  that  the  wholesome  and  nourishing  food  I  give  the 
child  does  not  taste  good  to  him?  If  he  could  he  would  have  again 
the  same  stuff  he  ate  when  a  beggar.  Perhaps  you  know  how  a 
healthy  ap})etite  is  depraved  by  the  use  of  tobacco  and  beer.  But  in 
all  wide  America,  I  am  sure  you  never  saw  appetites  so  depraved  as 
those  of  the  starveling  children  of  India.  Make  poor  Hera  Lai  as 
comfortable  as  possible  to  die.  You  can  do  no  more. 

Now,  doctor,  this  little  dried  up  waif  has  fever;  this  one  a  cough 
for  which  you  may  know  a  name — I  do  not;  this  one  raw,  open  sores; 
and  this  one  general  weakness.  You  must  stand  by  and  see  that  the 
ayah  (nurse)  in  charge  obeys  all  your  orders,  or  you  must  wash 
and  bind  on  clean  cloths,  and  dress  and  feed,  and  give  medicines 


Miss  io  n  S  t  o  ri  e  s 


27 


yourself.  Besides  tlie  sickness,  so  many  have  deformities  which  are 
caused  by  the  wretched  state  in  which  they  have  been  living.  VVe 
will  do  what  we  can  for  them,  but  other  duties  must  now  have  our 
attention. 

PART  II.  KEEPING  HOUSE  AND  TEACHING 

SCHOOL 

Mistress  Martha  Workman,  you  are  so  careful  and  neat.  Won’t 
you  do  my  housekeeping?  Call  the  cook  and  the  table-servant  and 
give  orders  for  meals,  and,  jingling  your  keys,  go  to  your  storeroom. 
See  the  cook  take  out  six  eggs  for  a  pudding  requiring  four,  and 
make  him  put  back  two,  and  also  be  careful  that  he  does  not  take  too 
much  sugar  and  other  things  as  well.  Watch  one  man  fill  the  lamps, 
or  he  will  steal  the  oil.  Take  your  daily  account  from  the  cook, 
weighing  or  counting  all  things  brought  from  town,  and  be  very  sure 
you  do  not  allow  him  to  charge  you  too  much  for  everything  brought. 
Do  not  lose  your  temper  when  he  tells  you  your  meat  is  worth  four 
or  five  cents  when  for  months  you  have  given  only  three  cents  for 
this  much.  Simply  note  that  his  wages  are  to  be  cut  for  per¬ 
sistent  deceit  and  impudence,  if  you  so  regard  it.  WTfite  down  no 
account  of  anything  you  have  not  seen  and  weighed  yourself.  After 
this  give  out  clean  dish  and  dust  cloths  and  towels.  You  must  give 
about  four  daily.  See  that  all  tins,  pots,  etc.,  are  cleanly  scoured. 
Talk  to  your  table-man  again  about  the  dirty  dishes  and  cupboards. 
When  you  despair  of  seeing  order,  system  and  neatness,  console  your¬ 
self  with  the  thought,  Hindu-like,  that  such  things  “always  have 
been  and  alwavs  will  be.”  See  that  a  certain  amount  of  butter  has 
been  made  from  the  milk  taken  3"esterday,  and  see  that  today’s  milk 
is  properly  boiled.  Since  you  have  not  been  able  as  yet  to  afford  an 
oil  stove,  you  are  alm.ost  wholly  helpless  in  the  hands  of  your  cook. 
You  could  in  nowise  go  into  that  little  tight  cook-house  unless  you 
wished  to  commit  suicide.  Besides,  you  were  sent  out  by  the  home 
people  to  teach  and  preach  to  the  heathen.  How  many  teachers  or 
preachers  at  home  do  their  own  cooking  ?  Here  I  will  leave  you 
waging  war  to  the  teeth  with  walle  (people)  of  all  descriptions — 
butchers,  bakers,  wood-sellers,  store-keepers,  etc.,  but  most  especially 
with  your  cook. 

Tom  Hardy,  it  is  your  turn  now.  Today  my  well  boys,  of  whom 
I  have  perhaps  twenty-five,  must  have  a  bath  and  clean  clothes. 
These  clean  clothes  must  be  gotten  from  the  washer-woman.  There 
is  a  book  on  that  shelf  in  which  the  number  she  took  last  week  is 


28 


M i s  s i 0  n  Stories 


written.  Be  sure  she  has  brought  all  back,  and  after  you  have  noted 
down  the  number  brought  and  the  number  missing,  watch  that  she 
does  not  slyly  carry  away  an  article  or  two  under  her  voluminous 
sari  (cloak).  You  must  be  very  sharp,  because  these  women  do 
steal  the  clean  or  dirty  clothes  from  under  your  ver}^  eyes.  Won’t 
you  be  glad  when  only  trustworthy  native  Christians  need  be  em¬ 
ployed,  when  we  can  have  such  at  our  command  ?  Now  lock  up  the 
soiled  clothes  until  tomorrow,  when  you  may  with  great  care  give 
them  to  the  washer-woman. 


Now  you  may  come  and  see  if  you  can  help  Martha.  First,  see 
that  sweeper-woman,  and  get  her  to  clean  up  all  the  tilth  about  the 
place,  and  sprinkle  lime  about  all  the  ditches.  Ihen  you  will  go  and 
see  that  the  water-man  has  boiled  gallons  of  drinking  water  to  cool 
today  for  tomorrow’s  use,  and  that  plenty  of  boiled  water  was  cooled 
and  set  away  for  the  children  to  drink  today.  Then  will  you  see 
whether  your  ayah  (nurse),  who  has  charge  of  the  milk,  has  properly 
boiled  it.  After  this  will  you  go  to  the  woman  who  cooks  the  chil¬ 
dren’s  food,  and  see  that  everything  is  clean  about  the  kitchen,  that 
she  has  emptied  no  slops  on  the  floor,  or  by  the  door,  and  has  left  no 
dirty  pans  or  dishes  about,  nor  allowed  the  children  to  carry  away 
the  utensils  or  food.  Later,  you  may  relieve  Martha  by  going  with 
the  cook  while  she  gets  out  the  provisions  from  the  storeroom  for 
the  mid-day  meal,  for  remember  that  neither  she  nor  those  who  are 
prowling  around  can  be  trusted.  Will  you  do  this  every  day  for  me, 
and  Martha,  do  it  twice  a  day  besides;  and  then  will  you  two  see  the 
children  when  they  eat,  so  that  the  sickly  ones  won’t  be  given  too 
much?  If  you  will,  it  will  be  a  great  rest  for  me. 


Long  ago  my  school  bell  rang,  but  how  could  I  have  gotten  in  on 
time  without  help  from  you  boys  and  girls  ?  Today  my  native  Chris- 
tion  helper  is  sick,  so  I  will  need  two  substitutes  for  my  school.  I 
will  take  a  young  lady  and  a  young  man.  You  will  both  sing 
hymns,  read  the  Bible  and  pray  together  with  the  fifty-three  boys. 
Then,  Bessie  Thomas,  you  take  one  class  of  First  Readers,  and 
Charlie  Marshall  take  another  and  teach  them  the  Bible.  Before  you 
begin  teaching,  however,  just  look  on  the  veranda  of  my  bungalow 
(the  school  is  held  in  the  bungalow  itself),  and  you  will  see  the 
highest  First  Reader  class  and  my  pupil  teachers,  Balli,  Sirawan  and 
Benji,  and  blind  Banmali,  all  quietly  reading  their  Bibles.  After 
the  Bible  lesson  you  will  each  in  turn  teach  numbers,  reading,  writ¬ 
ing  and  spelling.  You  will  put  each  class,  when  doing  slate  work 
of  any  kind,  in  charge  of  one  of  the  pupil  teachers,  and  when  you  are 
teaching  yourself  you  will  also  have  one  of  them  present  so  that  he 


Mission  Stories 


29 


can  learn  some  sensible  method  of  teaching  instead  of  the  sing-song 
parrot-like  memorizing  method  used  in  India.  So  a  training  school 
in  miniature  is  also  started  here.  The  school  opens  at  7  o’clock.  At 
10:30  jNlrs.  McGavran  will  give  a  singing  lesson.  Then  the  First 
Headers  all  go  home  and  you  will  have  one  hour  to  teach  geogra¬ 
phy,  grammar,  reading,  arithmetic,  English  and  the  Bible  to  the 
pupil  teachers.  At  12  eat  your  breakfast  and  rest  a  while.  Then 
get  up,  lay  out  lessons,  think  up  methods  and  charts,  etc.,  for  your 
own  and  the  boys’  use  next  day.  At  5  o’clock  be  ready  to  read 
Hindi  poetry,  or  in  any  way  prepare  yourself  in  the  language  not 
}Our  own  to  teach  school  the  next  day. 


PART  III.  SOME  SORROWS  AND  SOME  JOYS 

Come,  tender-hearted  Grade  Morris,  with  me  to  the  veranda, 
^vhere  I  threw  out  a  rug  a  while  ago.  What  is  that?  A  form,  dirty 
and  black,  with  long,  matted  hair,  is  creeping  from  under  the  rug. 
A  naked  child,  you  say.  Yes,  and  a  poor,  little,  starving  child,  as 
well.  Ask  her  how  she  came  there.  Oh!  but  she  will  not  speak,  for 
she  is  very  much  frightened.  Give  her  some  bread,  and  that  may 
make  her  so  that  she  will  not  be  afraid  of  you.  See  how  she  grabs 
it  and  how  hungrily  she  eats!  “Now  speak,  little  girl,”  you  say, 
“and  tell  me  how  you  came  here.”  “Your  mother  brought  you?” 
“When  did  she  bring  you  ?”  “While  you  were  eating  dinner,”  the 
child  said,  in  her  Hindi  language,  of  course.  “Why  did  she  bring 
you  ?”  “Because,”  you  hear  her  say,  “we  are  starving.  For  three 
days  we  have  eaten  no  food.  My  mother  was  dying  and  she  left  me 
for  you  to  protect.”  “And,”  you  ask,  “why  did  she  put  you  here?” 
“Because,”  she  replied,  “we  were  told  you  could  take  no  more  chil¬ 
dren  to  care  for;  so,  while  you  were  eating,  she  hid  me  here  and  ran 
away.”  Poor  Gracie,  why  are  the  tears  running  down  your  cheeks? 
You  are  pitying  this  poor  child,  but  you  are  also  thinking  of  dear 
Miss  Frost,  who  is  so  much  overworked;  and  her  crowded  Orphanage, 
how  that  she  has  many  more  girls  there  now  than  can  well  be  accom¬ 
modated,  or  than  she  should  be  asked  to  care  for.  And  you  also 
think  of  Miss  Burgess,  who  can  not  take  one  child  more.  So  we 
must  report  the  child  to  the  police.  If  she  does  not  die  at  once  in 
the  overcrowded  charity  hospital  or  poor-house,  she  will  be  sent 
away,  at  last,  to  more  misery,  perhaps  to  fall  into  everlasting  shame. 

You  feel  that  the  air  is  stifling  here  on  the  veranda  since  you 
have  had  this  sad  experience,  and  you  ask  me  to  walk  out  into  the 
road.  A  lame  child  creeps  alone  along  it.  It  is  wholly  defenseless 


30 


M i s  si  0  n  S  t  o  r  i  e s 


from  the  blinding  rain.  You  can  not  pick  it  up.  You  must  think 
again  that  our  rooms  are  over-crowded.  Besides  you  dare  not  bring 
til  is  child  among  the  others  until  you  know  whether  it  be  sulTering 


from  some  contasious  disease. 


So  let  us  go  on  to  the  bazaar, 


Now 


the  tears  stream  from  your  eyes.  You  are  not  used  to  such  sights. 
(  hildren  on  all  sides  of  you.  Children  in  all  stages  of  sickness  look¬ 
ing  at  you.  Children  stretching  out  their  tiny  hands  to  you.  Chil¬ 
dren  falling  on  their  faces  before  you.  Children  moaning,  and  weep¬ 
ing,  and  crying,  and  dying,  before  your  eyes.  Listen,  if  you  can  dis¬ 
tinguish  an  intelligent  sound  above  the  sickening,  heart-rending  con¬ 
fusion.  “I  am  dying!”  “I  am  hungry!”  “I  am  cold!”  “I  will  live 
with  you!”  “I  have  no  parents!”  “Take  pity  on  me!”  “Give  me 
bread!”  “Give  me  money!”  “Bread!  bread!  bread!”  “We  are 
starving!  starving!  starving!”  Shut  your  eyes  and  ears  and  heart. 
Thrust  every  dirty  beggar  from  you  and  run.  Only  a  few  days  ago 
Miss  Frost  wrote  you  that  she  had  seventy  children  and  not  5  cents 
on  hand  to  care  for  them.  To  be  sure  these  are  “little  ones”  of 
Christ.  For  two  months  before  the  rains,  even  a  cup  of  water  could 
not  be  obtained  for  days  by  many  of  them;  brooks,  streams  and  rivers 
had  dried  up,  and  that  helped  to  bring  about  their  present  condition. 
But  you  are  accustomed  to  misery  now.  Go  home  and  forget  what 
you  have  seen.  It  is  foolish  to  feel  that  such  scenes  take  all  your 
lifeblood  from  you. 

But  what  is  that  now  that  starts  your  flesh  creeping?  A  naked 
dead  body  of  a  child  tied  by  hands  and  feet  to  a  pole  like  some  dead 
animal,  and  being  carried  away  by  the  sweepers  to  be  buried.  Two 
months  ago  you  could  have  saved  that  child.  But  what  does  it 
matter?  Thousands  of  others  now  die  like  it.  You  know  very  well 
that  it  is  useless  to  think  of  trying  to  take  care  of  all  these  children 
until  more  buildings  are  built  for  their  accommodation,  and  more 
missionaries  sent  to  care  for  them.  When  the  missionaries  who  are 
already  on  the  held  are  so  overworked  as  to  endanger  their  lives, 
even  your  tender  heart  would  not  ask  that  they  attempt  to  do  more. 
But  do  you  not  wish  that  the  dear  boys  and  girls  at  home  would 
send  some  more  money  out  of  their  abiuidance  to  the  Builders’  F und, 
so  that  all  the  needed  buildings  could  immediately  be  erected?  And 
that  the  Board  could  have  sufficient  funds  })laced  in  its  hands  to  be 
enabled  to  send  out  the  needed  workers?  If  you  can  work  toward 
accomplishing  this  end,  it  will  be  much  better  than  sitting  down  and 
grieving  over  the  misery  about  you. 

But  it  is  not  fair  to  make  boys  and  girls  know  only  aches  and 
pains  and  sorrows.  There  are  things  to  tell  which  will  lighten  your 


M  i  s  s  i  0  II  IS  t  0  r  i  e  s 


31 


hearts,  and  some  wliicli  will  make  you  most  happy.  My  sister,  who 
is  studying  so  hard  now,  will  come  to  the  plains  in  the  fall  and  help 
us  with  our  work.  Our  youngest  sister  is  coming  out  from  America, 
and  in  a  year  she,  too,  can  work.  Dr.  Mary  McGavran  will  also  be 
with  us  in  the  fall,  and  there  are  other  missionary  helpers  promised 
as  soon  as  they  can  be  sent.  Besides  these  things,  it  so  delights  our 
hearts  that  the  children  whom  we  care  for  soon  become  well  and 
strong.  Tom  Hardy,  when  you  saw  the  boys  bathe,  did  you  observe 
what  roly-poly,  laughing,  merry  youngsters  they  were?  And  do  you 
remember  how  you  laughed  in  sympathy  with  them  ?  Later,  did  you 
see  how  perfectly  delighted  they  were  with  the  monkey  which  a  kind 
English  lady  gave  to  me  ?  I  am  sure  you  saw  what  tremendous  and 
healthy  appetites  the  boys  had.  I  can  tell  you,  young  people,  that 
six  months  ago  most  of  these  children  were  begging  in  the  town  as 
Giacie  saw  the  uncared  for  children  doing  today.  The  missionaries 
are  rejoiced  to  do  this  good  work  for  these  dear  children.  The  mis¬ 
sionaries  in  Damoh  have  taken  in  one  hundred  and  twenty  during  the 
year,  and  ]Mrs.  iMitchell  and  Miss  Frost  have  perhaps  taken  as  many 
more.  Not  only  do  we  have  rejoicing  in  seeing  the  children  become 
well  and  strong,  but  also  in  seeing  this  poor  benighted  peo[)le  brought 
out  of  sin  and  wickedness,  and  learning  better  things. 

Bessie  Thomas  and  Charlie  Marshall,  you,  I  am  sure,  noticed  that 
the  First  Reader  class  of  boys  are  old,  but  you  also  noticed  that  they 
are  intelligent  and  can  read  their  Bibles  well.  Less  than  one  year 
ago  not  one  could  read;  one  was  in  the  poor-house,  one  a  beggar  in 
the  hospital,  one  a  beggar  in  Bina,  one  in  the  Orphanage,  but  so 
wicked  that  Mr.  McGavran  sometimes  thought  he  must  be  sent  away 
for  the  sake  of  the  other  boys.  Now  all  those  boys  are  Christians, 
and  most  trustworthy  in  eyery  respect.  In  our  Christian  Endeayor 
Society  they  read  or  pray,  or  even  talk  a  little  in  a  stammering  way 
at  every  meeting.  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  ten  or  twelve  others 
will  soon  intelligently  obey  the  Gospel.  Besides,  Mr.  McGavran 
teaches  the  boys  to  be  manly  and  independent  by  training  them  in 
many  kinds  of  manual  labor.  A  hen  we  realize  that  these  people, 
who  do  not  know  any  better  than  to  steal  and  lie,  who  would  rather 
beg  than  work,  can  be  made  to  be  honest,  industrious  citizens  and 
conscientious  Christians,  our  cup  of  joy  overflows. 

I  felt  very  sorry  to  tell  you  in  my  last  letter  that  the  men  and 
women  were  so  depraved  that  they  would  steal  your  property  under 
3  our  very  e\’es,  but  I  was  compelled  to  do  so  in  order  that  you  might 
know  how  wretched  a  condition  heathenism  is.  And  it  is  with  a 
greater  happiness  than  1  can  express  that  I  think  of  the  change  that 


32 


Mission  Stories 


is  being  wrought  through  the  knowledge  of  our  Master.  It  is  a  great 
privilege  to  be  permitted  to  teach  these  poor  people  about  Jesus,  and 
to  do  what  we  can  toward  relieving  their  sufferings  and  sorrows. 

On  the  whole,  my  boys  and  girls,  would  you  prefer  to  have  the. 
aches  and  sorrows  along  with  the  joys,  or  would  you  give  up  the 
joys  in  order  to  escape  the  inconvenience  and  the  suffering  which  go 
with  the  work  ? 

A  VISIT  TO  SAN  JUAN,  PORTO  RICO 

By  NORA  COLLINS  IRELAND 

Last  Saturday  I  had  to  go  to  San  Juan,  and  I  wish  the  Junior 
boys  and  girls  could  have  been  with  me.  I  went  to  the  market  first. 
Surely  you  have  never  seen  a  market  like  this.  The  stores  are  built 
to  form  a  hollow  square.  Do  you  know  what  that  is?  If  not,  take 
a  square  piece  of  paper  and  cut  out  the  center,  and  you  will  know 
what  I  mean.  The  edge  of  your  paper  will  represent  the  place  for 
the  stores.  These,  of  course,  had  roofs  over  them.  On  one  side  of 
the  square  were  only  meat  stands;  on  another,  grocery  stores;  but 
the  third  was  the  funniest  of  all.  Two  or  three  restaurants  are  on 
this  side.  Do  you  go  in  and  order  beefsteak  and  potatoes,  ice  cream 
and  cake,  or  whatever  you  like?  Oh!  no.  The  tables  are  covered 
with  oil  cloth,  you  would  have  white  iron  dishes  to  eat  from,  like 
some  of  5'our  mamma’s  basins,  and  be  expected  to  eat  what  was 
cooked  that  day,  and  eat  it  with  j-our  knife  or  spoon.  Perhaps  it 
would  be  beans,  rice  and  garlic  cooked  together;  perhaps  it  would  be 
rice,  codfish  and  other  things,  or  it  might  be  nearly  everything  to¬ 
gether  as  soup.  Does  it  make  you  feel  hungry?  No?  I  did  not  feel 
hungry,  either,  so  did  not  stop. 

In  this  same  side  is  a  store  where  thev  sell  curios.  Tinv 
baskets,  curious  musical  instruments,  native  belts,  spoons  made  from 
something  like  a  gourd,  cups,  and  other  dishes  made  from  the  same 
fruit;  so  many  strange  and  curious  things  are  found  here.  The 
fourth  side  is  just  used  for  people  to  walk  in.  Now  the  center  that 
you  cut  from  your  paper,  or  the  liole  that  is  left,  represents  the  open 
square.  This  has  no  roof.  On  the  floor  sit  men  and  women  with 
their  fruits  and  vegetables  to  sell  spread  out  on  old  pieces  of  canvas 
or  right  on  the  floor.  You  will  find  oranges,  bananas,  pineapples, 
corazones  or  whatever  fruits  are  then  ripe,  potatoes,  cucumbers,  beets, 
turni])s  and  many  other  vegetables  that  we  have  at  home,  as  well  as 
many  iiew  ones  for  sale.  From  here  I  went  to  the  square  or  plaza 
again, 


Mission  Stories 


33 


Saturday  is  beggars’  day.  In  all  your  life  you  have  never  seen 
so  many  poor,  helpless  people  as  you  will  see  in  one  day  in  San  Juan. 
Men  whose  limbs  from  their  knees  down  have  not  grown  since  they 
were  boys,  so  there  is  no  strength  in  them,  and  they  have  to  walk  on 
their  hands  and  knees;  some  that  almost  have  to  creep  along  the  side¬ 
walk  because  they  can  not  stand  up  straight;  some  that  are  all  out 
of  shape,  the  poor,  the  blind  and  the  lame.  It  is  a  sad  sight.  When 
I  see  these  poor  people  I  often  imagine  I  can  see  Jesus  walking  among 
them  giving  sight  to  this  blind  man,  healing  that  lame  man,  taking 
this  one  by  the  hand  and  lifting  him  up,  going  from  one  to  the  other 
until  all  were  healed;  for  we  read,  “And  they  brought  unto  Him 
many  that  were  sick  and  He  healed  them  all.”  These  people  and  all 
the  others  in  Porto  Rico  need  Jesus  just  as  much  now  as  the  people 
did  so  long  ago  when  He  was  on  earth.  Ho  one  now  can  make  these 
poor,  crooked  bodies  straight;  but  they  can  be  told  about  Jesus  who 
will  save  them  from  their  sins,  and  this  is  the  most  necessary  part. 


CHRISTMAS  IN  THE  SUMMER 

By  MRS.  W.  J.  BURNER 

“Oh!  mamma,  it  was  just  the  best  Christmas  we  ever  had.”  This 
was  Jarvis’  opinion  of  our  second  Christmas  in  Argentina,  so  I  am 
sure  you  will  enjoy  hearing  about  it.  In  this  far  southern  land 
Christmas  comes  in  midsummer  and  Fourth  of  July  in  midwinter. 
Margaret’s  birthday,  June  30,  was  in  the  summer  time  in  our  old 
home.  Here,  in  our  new  home,  it  is  in  midwinter.  Queer,  isn’t  it  ? 

It  was  so  hot  I  thought  I  could  not  get  up  any  enthusiasm  over 
the  preparations.  But  the  children  were  so  enthusiastic  I  soon  be¬ 
came  enthusiastic  also.  Philip  had  said  he  intended  to  hang  up  his 
stocking  very  early  Monday  morning,  so  you  see,  in  spite  of  the  heat, 
he  felt  as  if  Christmas  was  really  coming.  A  branch  from  the  very 
large  magnolia  tree  in  our  yard  was  our  Christmas  tree,  and  a  num¬ 
ber  of  small  flags  Grandma  Burner  sent  us  were  the  principal  deco¬ 
rations.  At  its  base  we  set  a  pot  of  beautiful  jasmine.  Fortunately, 
Christmas  eve  there  came  a  ‘‘pampero^’ — a  cold  wind  from  the  south. 
“A  cold  wind  from  the  south?”  Yes,  down  here  the  cold  winds  are 
from  the  south  and  hot  winds  from  the  north.  So  Christmas  day 
was  quite  pleasant.  Some  American  friends  brought  us  some  home¬ 
made  candy,  which,  of  course,  tasted  better  than  the  new  kinds  we 
buy  here.  These  friends  all  board  in  the  center  of  Buenos  Aires,  so 
they  have  their  food  cooked  native  style  all  the  time.  We  and  they 


34 


Mission  Stories 


decided  to  have  an  American  Christmas  dinner  at  our  house.  Straw¬ 
berries  and  roasting  ears  are  not  just  the  things  for  such  a  dinner, 
but  we  had  them  so  some  of  the  party  who  are  going  home  soon  could 
tell  they  had  fresh  strawberries  Christmas.  The  rest  of  us  were 
more  interested  in  the  mince  pies — pies  are  a  luxury  here.  We  tried 
to  give  the  dinner  a  more  homelike  flavor  by  salting  the  butter  and 
by  leaving  garlic,  dried  mushrooms,  etc.,  out  of  the  chicken.  There 
were  no  other  children  here,  but  our  children  said  they  had  a  fine 
time  anyway.  It  has  been  more  than  four  months  since  they  played 
with  any  English-speaking  children. 

Last  year  our  children  were  very  homesick.  But  this  year  they 
seldom  complain.  One  night  after  the  boys  had  disturbed  our  serv¬ 
ices  by  breaking  the  window,  throwing  little  stones  into  the  room  and 
doing  many  other  naughty  things,  Philip  said,  ‘‘Oh,  mamma,  don’t 
you  wish  we  were  back  in  North  America?”  But  usually  they  are 
very  glad  to  be  where  their  father  can  preach  Jesus  to  people  who 
know  so  little  of  Him. 

In  the  churches  here  we  have  seen  little  children  kissing  the  knees 
and  feet  of  images  of  Jesus.  We  thought,  “How  much  better  to  know 
His  words  than  to  kiss  His  image.”  They  never  heard  how  He  said 
“Suffer  the  children  to  come  unto  me.” 

We  are  all  very  glad  when  the  Junior  Builders  comes,  and  we  read 
it  through  and  through. 


CHILDREN  IN  ARGENTINA 

By  MRS.  W.  J.  BURNER 

One  missionary  said  to  me,  “I  believe  the  children  of  Argentina 
are  the  prettiest  and  the  meanest  in  the  world.”  I  know  some  of 
them  are  very  pretty  and  also  that  some  of  them  are  very  mean. 
There  is  very  little  family  discipline  and  almost  no  discipline  at  all 
in  the  schools,  so  the  boys  especially  get  the  idea  very  early  in  life 
that  they  can  do  just  as  they  please.  It  is  because  of  this  that  police¬ 
men  are  so  much  more  numerous  than  they  are  in  American  towns 
and  cities.  A  policeman  seems  to  be  the  only  person  for  whom  these 
children  really  have  any  respect  or  fear.  I  am  not  writing  of  the 
ignorant  poor  in  the  crowded  tenements,  but  of  all  classes. 

Most  of  the  people  here  are  very  dark-skinned,  dark-haired  and 
dark-eyed.  They  are  fond  of  bright  colors  and  very  fond  of  music. 
Most  of  their  games  are  played  to  the  accompaniment  of  music  or 
song.  In  La  Plata  it  seemed  to  me  we  were  always  hearing  a  street 


Mission  Stories 


35 


organ  or  an  accordion.  Boys  and  girls  seldom,  if  ever,  play  together. 
Only  in  English  schools  are  boys  and  girls  in  the  same  school  room. 

This  race  of  people  is  naturally  a  smaller  race  than  ours,  but 
even  when  we  remember  that,  many  of  the  children  look  ill-fed  and 
undersized  to  us.  An  Argentine  mother  thinks  nothing  of  giving  her 
little  baby  wine  or  beer.  We  often  see  little  tots  going  to  the  drink 
shops  for  the  day’s  supply  of  wine  and  beer.  Margaret  has  taken 
dinner  with  two  little  native  girls.  In  each  house  she  has  been 
offered  beer  and  wine.  When  she  declined  both,  they  said,  “Well, 
what  do  you  drink  ?” 

Though  they  are  all  supposed  to  be  members  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  having  been  baptized  when  babies  and  when  twelve  years  old 
going  through  an  elaborate  ceremony  of  confirmation,  they  are  totally 
ignorant  of  the  Bible  and  of  how  to  worship  God.  We  are  very  glad 
to  have  them  come  to  our  services.  But  it  is  trying  when  they 
behave  so  badly,  as  they  often  do.  I  sometimes  think  it  would  not 
be  so  trying  if  they  were  half-naked  little  savages.  But  these  people 
are  civilized  and  are  well  dressed — many  of  them  in  the  extreme  of 
fashion — and  they  can  be  so  dignified  that  it  is  disappointing  when 
they  misbehave.  A  great  deal  of  the  misbehavior  is  due  to  ignorance, 
of  course. 

Our  children  can  now  talk  Spanish  very  well  with  other  children. 
Some  of  the  games  they  play  are  the  same  games  you  play.  “Pussy 
wants  a  corner”  is  called  “I  ask  for  bread.” 

Wishing  the  Juniors  success  in  all  their  undertakings,  the  three 
Juniors  in  Argentina  send  their  love. 

THE  BOY  WHO  WOULD  GO  TO 

SCHOOL 

By  MORTON  D.  ADAMS,  JR. 

You  have  heard  of  caste,  though  of  course  you  do  not  know  much 
about  it  in  this  country  from  personal  experience.  Still  you  must 
not  imagine  that  we  are  the  most  democratic  and  consistent  people 
there  are.  We  claim  all  men  are  born  equal,  and  commonly  act  as 
if  we  didn’t  really  think  so;  while  in  the  East,  where  no  one  minds 
such  matters,  they  claim  that  all  men  are  unequal  and  live  up  to 
their  belief,  yet  in  their  inmost  hearts  are  beginning  to  admit  that 
“a  man’s  a  man  for  a’  that.” 

Here  is  a  true  story  that  may  dimly  show  how  caste  works. 
Saddhu  was  a  thin,  underfed  boy  of  ten  or  twelve  years,  whose  father 


36 


Mission  Stories 


and  mother  were  grass-cutters,  living  in  a  hut  about  six  feet  by  eight, 
on  the  outskirts  of  a  town.  Very  early  in  the  morning  they  went  off 
to  the  jungles  with  their  sharp  little  sickles,  and  hacked  all  day  at 
the  tough,  rasping  grass,  the  sweat  pouring  from  their  faces.  In 
the  evening  they  trotted  back  again  with  two  bundles  of  hay  apiece 
swinging  from  poles  slung  over  their  shoulders.  They  sold  their  hay 
in  some  corner  of  the  howling  bazaar  for  a  pitifully  small  sum  of 
money,  and  a  little  later  were  on  their  way  home  with  two  or  three 
pounds  of  rice — tlie  sole  reward  for  the  day’s  work. 

No,  not  quite  the  sole  reward,  because  every  night  Saddhu’s 
mother  managed  to  tie  a  pice,  a  coin  worth  less  than  a  fifth  of  a 
cent,  into  a  corner  of  her  sari,  and  on  Saturday,  which  is  market 
day,  she  took  her  hoard  to  the  bazaar,  where  she  untied  the  hard 
little  knot  of  cloth  heavy  with  the  week’s  savings  and  spent  it  all 
on  three  red  peppers,  a  mud  cup  full  of  “khopra  ke  tel”  and  a  little 
green  bottle  half  full  of  ‘^mutti  ke  tel.”  The  “khopra  ke  tel”  was 
cocoanut  oil  with  which  even  a  poor  grass-cutter  loves  to  anoint  him¬ 
self,  and  the  “mutti  ke  tel”  was  Standard  oil,  to  be  burned  in  a  tiny 
saucer  for  light.  This  last  was  an  unheard  of  extravagance,  where¬ 
by  hangs  my  tale. 

For  Saddhu,  their  son,  was  unusually  bright  and  had  somehow 
picked  up  the  art  of  reading.  Instead  of  cutting  grass  with  his  par¬ 
ents  he  worked  as  stable  boy  at  a  rich  man’s  house,  earning  a  slender 
salary;  and  every  now  and  then  he  brought  home  a  badly  soiled  dog¬ 
eared  little  book  from  which  he  read  by  the  light  of  the  wretched 
lamp.  In  the  warm,  still  dark,  while  the  cooking  smoke  of  evening 
hung  low  and  heavy  over  the  land  and  the  voices  of  crickets  mingled 
with  the  throb  of  some  far-off  kettledrum,  a  plaintive  sing-song  rose 
from  the  little  hut  under  the  stars.  It  was  Saddhu  reading  over  the 
fable  of  the  “Tortoise  and  the  Hare,”  or  perchance  a  simple  version 
of  the  “War  of  the  Mahabaratta.” 

Saddhu’s  parents  liked  to  listen  and  somehow  grew  proud  of  their 
boy,  so  that  one  day  when  he  was  seized  with  a  desire  to  go  to  school 
they  sent  him  quite  gladly.  Then  came  cruel  disappointment.  The 
school  was  meant  for  high  caste  boys  only,  and  Saddhu  was  anything 
but  high  caste.  Just  his  shadow  falling  on  a  high  caste  boy  would 
have  eternally  defiled  that  high  caste  boy.  Hardly  had  Saddhu  en¬ 
tered  the  school  yard  when  a  crowd  of  boys  yelled  “Ghassia”  (“Grass- 
cut”),  and  chased  him  out  with  sticks  and  stones. 

“Why  mightn’t  I  have  known?”  he  thought.  He  went  to  a  well, 
washed  out  his  threadbare  dhotie,  pounding  it  well  on  a  stone  and 
bleaching  it  Avhite  in  the  sun,  and  next  day  appeared  fit  school  as  a 


Mission  Stories 


37 


Hindu.  His  dirty,  tell-tale  coat  left  off,  airy  white  dliotie  worn  long 
and  full  and  the  customary  string  over  his  bare  shoulder,  he  saluated 
a  master,  “What  caste?”  asked  the  master  suspiciously.  “Hindu,” 
replied  Saddhu,  but  his  thick  lips  and  black  skin  gave  him  the  lie. 
“Modest  dog,”  said  the  haughty  Brahmin,  “it  is  well  the  sun  throws 
your  shadow  aside.  Get  out,  watching  carefully  that  your  base-born 
hide  touch  none  of  us.  Here,  chaprassie!”  A  tall,  gaunt  man  with 
an  official  red  ribbon  and  brass  badge  caught  poor  Saddhu,  held  him 
by  the  ear  and  jerked  him  out  through  the  gate.  The  boys  in  the 
courtyard  hooted  in  delight  and  threw  dust  and  evil  language  over 
the  wall  at  the  poor  low  caste  boy  as  he  went  off. 

All  this  was  just  as  well  for  Saddhu.  If  his  disguise  had  let  him 
contaminate  fifty  boys  and  a  master  or  two  before  being  caught  it 
would  have  been  as  much  as  his  life  was  worth.  The  puloos  (police) 
are  not  obtrusive  in  such  cases.  Next  day  a  humble  low  caste  boy  in 
soiled  coat  and  a  rag  of  a  dhotie  appeared  once  more  beneath  a  win¬ 
dow  of  the  school.  At  his  knock  the  wooden  leaves  of  the  window 
opened  and  a  well-dressed  young  master,  carrjTng  a  long  rattan  cane, 
asked  what  was  wanted.  “Master  Sahib,  this  is  the  governmaint 
madrasseh  (government  school)  in  which  for  a  ghassia  there  is  no 
room.  Where  am  I  to  go?”  “What  do  we  care  where  you  go?”  re¬ 
plied  the  master.  “I  can  read  to  the  Fourth  Book,”  said  the  boy; 
“that  is  a  Jographee  in  your  hand.”  The  master  opened  to  the  first 
page  of  his  little  book,  and  the  boy,  reading  through  the  window, 
said  slowly,  “Jographee — tir-eats — of  thee — airth’s — surface.”  “I 
know  a  little  Angrezi  (English),”  he  explained,  A  half-starved  low 
caste  boy  who  can  read  at  all,  to  say  nothing  of  reading  English,  the 
supreme  ambition  of  a  native  mind,  is  indeed  a  wonder.  The  master 
may  have  had  some  smoulding  instincts  of  the  teacher,  though  Indian 
school  masters  usually  do  not.  At  any  rate,  perhaps  half  in  curiosity 
to  see  what  would  come,  he  took  a  pencil  and  wrote,  “Name — Saddhu. 
Caste — Ghassia,”  and  said,  “Saddhu.  Ghassia,  your  seat  is  under  this 
window.  When  the  sun  is  right  I  may  hear  your  lesson.”  He  tossed 
him  a  few  oily  Hindustanee  books  and  closed  the  window. 

From  that  time  on  Saddhu  sat  on  the  hot  sand  under  the  window, 
droning  over  his  lessons  by  himself.  When  the  sun  was  sure  not  to 
throw  his  shadow  into  the  school  you  might  have  seen  the  window 
open  and  the  master  inside  listening  to  Saddhu’s  recitation  on  the 
oustside,  correcting  the  results  Saddhu  called  off  from  his  arith¬ 
metic  slate,  and  setting  fresh  lessons  in  “Jographee,”  “Reering,” 
“Girammar,”  etc.  The  master  would  never  have  bothered  about 
Saddhu  at  all  if  it  hadn’t  been  that  the  low  caste  ragamuffin  did  a 


38 


Mission  Stories 


great  deal  better  work  than  some  others  inside.  So  while  the  hot  sun 
blazed  upon  him,  Saddhu  studied  in  his  little  corner,  from  time  to 
time  reciting  through  the  window.  After  a  while  the  master  who 
heard  his  lessons  became  his  friend  and  was  almost  kind  to  him,  but 
the  boys  inside  took  him  as  a  special  gift  from  heaven  on  whom  they 
might  shower  their  cruel  attentions.  All  pencil  parings,  bits  of 
waste  paper  and  other  rubbish  were  carefully  stored  till  there  was  a 
respectable  pile  to  throw  on  Saddhu’s  head.  An  epidemic  of  mouth 
washing,  requiring  water  to  be  squirted  from  a  window,  set  in,  and 
Saddhu’s  window  seemed  the  only  one  to  which  a  hundred  and  fifty 
boys  could  resort  for  this  purpose.  And  the  number  of  hands  held 
up  with  fingers  snapping  and  voices  calling,  ‘‘Master  Sahib,  may  1 
go  out?”  increased  from  day  to  day.  Each  boy  as  he  went  out  had 
his  fling  of  one  sort  or  another  at  the  quiet  fellow  sitting  in  the  sun. 

When  the  hot  weather  came  on  the  sun  beat  dazzlingly  against 
the  hot  wall.  Other  boys  could  sit  in  the  cool,  dark  room  inside. 
They  were  fair-skinned,  born  to  purple  and  fine  linen,  and  gaudy  little 
caps,  and  the  joy  of  flying  patangs  (kites)  and  playing  with  shiny 
marbles  and  crossing  the  street  when  they  felt  like  it  to  buy  three 
pice  worth  of  jalebis  from  the  sweetmeat  seller. 

When  the  tall,  white  minarets  of  the  mosque  blazed  so  in  the  sun 
that  it  hurt  to  look  at  them,  and  the  river  just  visible  through  the 
mango  trees  narrowed  to  a  silver  ribbon  in  a  belt  of  sand,  Saddhu 
brought  banana  leaves  from  the  garden  across  the  way  and  built 
himself  a  little  shelter.  But  the  whistling  hot  winds  made  short  work 
of  it,  and  dust  clouds  swirling  down  the  street  filled  his  mouth  with 
sand  as  before.  Still  he  stuck  to  his  post. 

One  day  the  noise  of  scores  of  boys  studying  out  loud  suddenly 
stopped.  A  stern  looking  Sahib,  all  booted  and  spurred,  in  a  khaki 
suit  and  a  big  sun  hat,  clattered  up  on  a  horse  and  came  into  the 
school.  It  was  the  terrible  Inspector  Sahib  for  whom  the  boys  had 
been  getting  ready  for  weeks.  He  went  the  rounds,  examining  each 
class  and  picking  out  individuals  here  and  there.  Then  his  eyes  fell 
on  Saddhu  sitting  out  in  the  sun.  “For  what  punishment  is  that 
boy  sitting  there?”  he  asked.  “Only  a  low  caste  vagabond.  Sahib, 
who  is  there  at  his  own  pleasure,”  replied  the  head  master.  “Bring 
him  in,”  said  the  Sahib.  The  same  chaprassie  who  had  taken  him 
out  with  such  rough  treatment  now  told  Saddhu  it  was  the  Sahib’s 
order  that  he  should  come  at  once  onto  the  school  veranda.  Here, 
trembling  and  all  alone  while  the  rest  of  the  school  looked  on  from 
a  safe  distance,  Saddhu  was  examined  by  the  Inspector  Sahib.  Hard 
questions  in  grammar,  knotty  little  passages  in  his  new  panchwa 


Mission  Stories. 


39 


pustak  (fifth  reader),  earnest  scratching  on  his  arithmetic  slate,  and 
a  crowning  effort  in  the  Eenglaesh  Reemur  (English  reader)  — 
Saddhu  went  through  it  all,  his  big,  black  eyes  sparkling  with  excite¬ 
ment.  “That  will  do,”  said  the  Sahib,  pushing  back  his  chair. 
Saddhu  gathered  up  his  books  and  went  out  quietly  through  the  gate. 

It  seems  that  the  Sahib  made  a  speech  to  the  whole  school  after 
that.  He  said  that  Saddhu  stood  at  the  head  of  the  school — he  even 
praised  the  master  for  so  well-taught  a  pupil,  and  intimated  that  the 
sole  good  thing  he  had  found  in  that  high  caste  boys’  government 
school  on  that  trip  was  the  “low  caste  vagabond  who  sat  under  the 
window  for  his  own  pleasure.”  Wherefore  the  master  now  presented 
Saddhu  with  two  rupees  (sixty-six  cents)  and  a  new  coat  and  six 
annas  (about  ten  cents)  worth  of  sweetmeats,  asking  that  he  would 
say  not  a  word  about  this  to  anyone.  He  also  forgot  himself  and 
patted  Saddhu  on  the  back ;  then  begged  him  not  to  tell  lest  he  should 
lose  caste  and  have  to  pay  a  thousand  rupees  to  the  priests  to  be 
purified.  But  Saddhu’s  master  was  a  real  teacher  and  one  who  loved 
the  truth,  and  he  afterward  disgraced  himself  in  the  eyes  of  the 
priests  by  becoming  a  Kiristan  ( Christian ) .  As  for  Saddhu,  when 
the  clean  white  mission  school  house  rose  in  that  town  he  became  its 
head  master  and  taught  other  low  caste  boys  in  the  shade  what  he 
had  fought  for  in  the  sun.  Later  on,  he  became  a  power  in  the  state. 

RAMAN  OF  THE  ROUND  HAT 

By  MORTON  D.  ADAMS,  JR. 

In  India,  before  the  red  sun  has  peeped  over  the  rim  of  the  earth 
and  turned  the  short  twilight  into  morning,  before  even  the  birds  are 
awake,  the  cows  start  off  to  the  jungles  to  pasture.  You  will  hear 
them  in  the  early  dawn  by  the  jingle  tinkle  of  their  bells  as,  with 
shuffling  feet  that  raise  much  dust,  they  jangle  down  the  great  cool, 
shadowy  roads  that  lead  off  to  their  feeding  grounds.  They  go  in 
herds  of  fifty  or  a  hundred  or  more,  all  in  charge  of  a  little  naked 
boy  who  sits  sideways  on  a  big  buffalo  and  dreams  while  he  is  car¬ 
ried  shuffling  along.  Through  the  hot  day  that  little  boy  sprawls  in 
the  shade  while  the  cattle  browse,  but  when  evening  comes  he  takes 
his  long  stick  and  lets  fall  half  a  dozen  loud  whacks  on  the  back  of 
some  scrawny  cow  or  buffalo,  which  scampers  off  with  its  tail  in  the 
air,  and  this  starts  the  whole  herd  homeward.  So  in  the  evening 
along  all  the  roads  the  cows  come  back  again,  trailing  clouds  of  dust 
that  spread  everywhere  and  make  the  sunset  like  a  ball  of  crimson 
fire. 


40 


Mission  S  t  0  r  i  e  s 


Now,  small,  naked  Eaman  had  been  born  to  such  work  as  this. 
His  skin  was  dark — about  the  same  shade  as  that  of  Mya,  his  favorite 
buffalo — and  his  hair  was  long  and  black  and  tousled,  and  his  eyes 
were  as  black  as  his  hair.  But  he  had  a  row  of  flashing  white  teeth 
that  showed  very  plainly  one  day  when  a  conceited  crow  sitting  on 
Mya’s  back  got  caught  by  a  sudden  swish  of  Mya’s  tail  that  sent  him 
flying  before  he  could  open  his  wings.  If  you  had  seen  Raman’s  eyes 
just  then  you  would  have  caught  in  them  a  merry  twinkle. 

On  his  head  Raman  wore  a  round  hat  made  of  bamboo  matting, 
wliich  was  nearly  as  big  as  he  was  and  shaded  him  like  an  umbrella. 
When  he  took  his  hat  off  and  leaned  on  it  it  was  just  like  a  round 
shield.  As  far  as  clothes  went,  it  was  all  he  had,  for  beside  his  big, 
round  hat  little  Raman  wore  nothing  at  all  except  a  necklace  of 
copper  coins. 

Seated  one  morning  on  Mya’s  back  while  the  herd  was  going  down 
the  road,  Raman  met  two  white  Sahibs,  one  of  whom  called  to  him 
from  his  horse:  “Ohe  Raoot,  how  many  cows  have  you  in  your 
herd?”  Now  a  Sahib  is  always  a  very  great  man,  and  Raman  was 
afraid  this  one  was  going  to  drag  him  off  to  school  or  put  him  in 
jail,  but  he  felt  he  must  reply,  so  he  said  he  had  a  great  many  cows 
in  his  herd.  “How  many?”  demanded  the  Sahib.  Raman  looked 
blank.  He  cudgled  his  little  brain,  but  since  he  couldn’t  count  very 
far  he  fell  back  on  his  old  reply  that  there  were  a  great  many.  “Tell 
me  how  many,”  said  the  Sahib.  Raman  grew  afraid.  “Very  many,” 
he  replied.  “About  five  hundred?”  asked  the  Sahib.  “Yes,  yes. 
Sahib,  five  hundred,”  said  Raman.  The  Sahibs  rode  off.  “There 
were  just  thirty  cows  in  the  herd,”  said  one  to  the  other.  “But  at 
any  rate  the  youngster  stuck  to  his  post.  All  the  other  herd-boys  I 
try  to  ask  that  question  run  off  before  I  get  near  ’em.” 

Down  the  road  with  his  herd  went  Raman.  The  sun  was  getting 
high  now  and  the  people  going  on  foot  from  one  village  to  another 
passed  him  in  little  crowds,  the  men  carrying  bundles  slung  from 
each  end  of  a  pole  balanced  on  their  shoulders,  the  women  with 
baskets  on  their  heads.  Now  and  then  a  rich  Malguzar  would  go 
proudly  by  on  his  pony,  with  his  oxcart  and  servants  behind.  “Get 
out  of  my  way,  crazy,”  he  would  call  to  Raman,  riding  right  through 
the  middle  of  the  herd  and  scattering  it  right  and  lift.  Then  Raman 
would  have  to  jump  off  Mya’s  back  and  chase  the  silly  cows  back  to 
the  road  again  with  many  shouts  and  whacks  of  his  stout  stick  on 
their  lean  ribs.  But  for  once  he  was  repaid  for  his  extra  work. 
After  the  Malguzar  had  passed  and  the  herd  were  quiet  again,  he 
saw  something  flash  by  the  roadside.  He  ran  to  the  spot  and  found 


Mission  Stories 


41 


a  little  mirror,  which  the  Malguzar’s  wife  must  have  dropped  from 
her  cart.  He  picked  it  up  and  it  gave  a  dazzling  flash.  Oh,  how 
fine  it  was!  He  thought  he  had  never  seen  such  a  beautiful  thing 
before.  When  he  looked  in  it — there,  wonder  of  wonders — was  his 
own  face!  And  when  he  turned  it  from  side  to  side  it  sent  a  spot 
of  white  light  up  and  down  the  road. 

He  climbed  up  on  Mya’s  back  and  stroked  the  smooth  mirror  with 
his  little  fingers.  ‘‘Kaisa  soonder!  Kaisa  soonder!”  (how  beautiful) 
he  kept  saying  softly.  Now  the  herd  had  come  to  the  end  of  its 
journey  on  the  high  road.  No  longer  stretched  the  level  brown  poddy 
fields  right  off  to  the  sky,  but  on  either  side  was  rough,  broken 
ground  covered  with  thickets  through  which  you  couldn’t  see  far. 
This  was  the  jungle,  and  the  herd  rushed  into  it  by  a  footpath  that 
traveled  from  the  main  road  and  took  them  into  a  shady  tangle, 
where  they  browsed  ravenously  on  any  grass  they  could  find.  Raman 
hopped  off  Mya’s  back  and  lay  down  under  a  babool  tree  and  played 
with  his  mirror. 

“Hai,  Langri!”  he  called  to  a  little  lame  cow  near  him.  “See 
this!  see  this!”  and  he  made  a  spot  of  light  dance  before  her  eyes. 
Thin,  starved  Langri  was  so  busy  tearing  at  the  dry  grass  that 
nothing  short  of  an  earthquake  would  have  budged  her — except  the 
mirror.  Once  the  spot  of  light  reached  her  eyes  she  kicked  up  her 
heels  and  shook  her  head  and  ran  off  as  fast  as  her  lame  foot  let  her. 

“Aha!  aha!”  chuckled  little  Raman.  “Dar  gya!”  (she’s  scared!) 
Here  was  a  new  sport!  Now  how  would  the  rest  act?  He  turned 
the  glass  on  them  one  after  another  and  as  the  mischievous  flash 
caught  their  eyes  the  cows  did  as  Langri  had  done  before  them  and 
ran  off  with  many  antics  of  feet  and  tails,  much  to  a  small  boy’s 
delight.  Presently  Raman  was  all  alone.  The  cows  were  scattered 
through  the  thicket,  feeding  in  the  warm  sun,  with  here  and  there  a 
solemn  king  crow  perched  on  their  backs.  The  air  was  full  of  the 
fragrance  of  wild  jasmine  and  other  jungle  flowers,  and  overhead  the 
clouds  sailed  in  white  puffs  across  the  sky.  Everything  was  lonely 
and  very  still.  Raman  wanted  company.  “Wao,  Mya!  Mya!  Mya! 
Wahoo!”  he  called.  The  old  buffalo  answered  with  a  jangle  of  his 
bell.  Raman  hunted  him  out  and  found  the  herd  feeding  around 
him.  He  climbed  upon  his  back  and  lay  down.  How  still  it  was! 
He  must  have  gone  to  sleep  for  a  moment,  for  when  he  opened  his 
eyes  a  strange  thing  had  happened.  The  herd  was  all  in  a  bunch, 
stamping  feet,  heads  in  the  air,  sniffing  nervously,  all  huddled  be¬ 
hind  Mya,  who  stood  as  if  on  guard  with  his  horns  lowered.  Some¬ 
thing  stirred  in  the  thicket  ahead.  There  came  a  sudden  crash  of 


42 


Mission  Stories 


twigs  and  leaves  as  if  a  large  body  were  moving  through  the  under¬ 
brush,  and  out  walked  a  huge  tiger.  He  came  a  few  steps  straight 
toward  the  herd,  then  stopped  and  settled  on  his  haunches,  his  tail 
swishing  from  side  to  side. 

Raman  was  too  frightened  to  move.  In  front  of  him  a  spot  of 
light  wavered  on  the  ground  as  the  hand  that  held  a  little  mirror 
trembled.  And  that  spot  of  light  wavered  just  far  enough  to  find 
the  tiger’s  eye — one  moment  as  the  great  cat  caught  the  Hash  he 
stiffened  for  a  spring  and  the  next  he  flew  througli  the  air,  landed 
to  one  side  and  was  bounding  back  to  cover  when  bang!  came  a  loud 
report  and  a  little  cloud  of  smoke  drifted  over  Raman’s  head.  It 
was  the  white  Sahib  on  his  horse  who  rode  up  to  Mya’s  side  and  took 
off  the  round  hat  and  looked  into  Raman’s  face.  ‘‘What  have  you 
seen,  little  son?”  he  asked. 

“Bagwa,  tahib,”  said  the  boy  simply  (“a  tiger,  sir!”)  “I  saw 
it,  too,”  said  the  Sahib.  “It  had  its  eyes  on  this  fat  buffalo  and  it 
would  have  jumped  on  you  if  it  hadn’t  been  for  that  charm  of  yours. 
Then  there  would  have  been  a  little  less  than  five  hunderd  cows  in 
your  herd — one  buffalo  and  one  boy  missing,  see?”  But  just  then 
Raman,  who  was  only  a  little  boy  after  all,  burst  into  tears.  “Tahib, 
bagwa,  bagwa!”  (tiger,  tiger)  he  cried.  “No,  he  is  dead.  Come  and 
see,”  said  the  Sahib.  They  took  the  tiger  home  in  triumph — also 
Raman,  His  mother  tied  the  little  mirror  that  had  saved  his  life 
into  his  necklace  for  a  charm — and  thereafter  it  was  sweetmeats  and 
/  a  new  white  coat  that  the  Sahib  gave  to  little  Raman  of  the  Round 
Hat. 


THREE  INDIAN  HOMES 

By  BESSIE  FARRAR  MADSEN 

They  came  at  sunset.  They  had  been  traveling  all  day  through 
the  jungle.  Across  his  shoulders  the  man  carried  a  bamboo,  to  each 
end  of  which  was  suspended  a  basket,  and  in  each  basket  sat  a  little 
naked  brown  child.  Several  paces  behind  him  came  the  woman,  with 
all  their  household  possessions  carried  in  a  basket  on  her  head.  They 
stopped  at  a  clearing  in  sight  of  the  tent  where  the  missionary  lived. 
Gathering  sticks,  they  builded  a  fire  and  in  an  earthen  vessel  cooked 
Ihe  handful  of  rice  that  was  left  to  them.  Leaves  pinned  together 
with  thorns  served  them  as  plates.  After  their  evening  meal  they 
piled  more  wood  on  the  fire  and  lay  down  on  the  ground  near  by  to 
sleep. 


Mission  Stories 


43 


In  the  early  morning  they  came  to  the  tent  and  bowed  themselves 
low  before  the  missionary,  “Protector  of  the  poor,”  they  said,  “we 
come  from  a  country  where  there  is  for  ns  no  food,  no  work,  where 
there  is  hunger  continually.  For  a  year  we  have  been  wanderers. 
We  would  have  work.  We  would  sit  in  your  shadow  and  eat  your 
salt.” 

The  missionary  demurred,  Avondering  how  he  could  supply  with 
Avork  all  Avho  Avere  pleading  for  it.  But  the  man  again  prostrated 
himself.  “Behold  my  children.  Tliey  die  of  hunger.  Send  us  not 
aAA^ay.” 

Work  Avas  found  for  them.  The  man  was  to  stand  in  a  shallow 
pit  to  dig  and  tread  the  earth,  Avoiking  it  into  a  mortar  in  which 
to  lay  the  bricks  of  the  building.  The  Avonian  Avas  to  bring  Avater 
from  the  Avell  nearby  to  moisten  the  earth,  Avhile  the  children  made 
mud  cakes  on  the  edge  of  the  pit  and  were  satisfied.  Though  the 
man  received  only  fiA^e  cents  a  day  and  the  Avoman  four,  they  Avere 
very  grateful,  for  this  they  looked  upon  as  good  Avages  then. 

When  the  noon  hour  came  and  the  Avorkmen  had  two  hours  to 
rest,  this  little  family  made  ready  to  build  for  themselves  a  house. 
They  cleared  a  small  piece  of  ground  and  plastered  it  over  Avith  mud. 
They  cut  doAvn  small  branches  from  the  jungle  and  made  them  into 
a  kind  of  Avigw^am.  They  lined  it  Avith  dried  grass.  They  covered 
the  small  opening  Avhich  serA'ed  as  a  dooinvay  Avith  a  screen  made 
of  bamboo  and  grass.  It  Avas  a  tiny  place,  but  it  served  as  a  shelter 
many  months.  “To  me  there  is  a  house  and  food,  nearby  is  a  well 
of  AA’ater;  Avliat  more  can  I  Avish?”  he  would  say, 

A  year  passed  and  these  Avayfarers  of  the  jungle  had  builded  for 
themselves  a  new  house.  It  Avas  more  spacious  than  the  old.  It 
Avas  ten  feet  square  on  the  inside.  The  uprights  at  the  corners  of 
the  frameAvork  had  been  chosen  with  forked  ends,  and  on  these  were 
laid  the  crosspieces.  Taller  pieces  supported  the  ridgepole.  The 
vA^alls  Avere  made  of  brush,  and  they  Avere  plastered  without  and 
Avithin  Avith  mud.  The  roof  Avas  covered  Avith  thatch.  Inside  there 
Avas  a  cot  and  an  earthen  cooking  place.  The  smoke  found  its  way 
out  through  crevices  in  the  roof.  Through  these  same  crevices  the 
rain  found  its  Avay  in.  They  Avere  proud  of  their  little  home.  There 
Avere  many  like  it  in  the  villages  round  about.  The  man  Avore  a 
calico  coat  to  church  these  days  and  the  Avoman  a  clean,  coarse  sari. 
Even  the  children  AA^ere  clothed  on  these  special  occasions. 

Taa’o  years  later  an  addition  Avas  put  to  this  house.  A  shed  Avas 
built  out  from  it  and  a  room  roughly  fashioned  as  a  shelter  for  the 
oxen,  for  the  family  uoav  OAvned  a  yoke  of  oxen,  a  Avooden  plow  and 


44 


Mission  Stories 


a  small  rice  field.  It  was  about  this  time  that  in  the  house  a  bin 
was  built  of  bamboo  and  plastered  with  mud  to  hold  the  grain  of 
fhat  first  year’s  harvesting.  It  was  said  that  somewhere  inside  the 
house  was  buried  the  earthen  pot  vhich  contained  the  savings  they 
were  continually  putting  by.  Just  wdiere  this  spot  w^as  no  one  knew% 
but  it  might  have  been  under  the  cooking  place  or  beneath  the  cot. 

Four  years  passed.  Again  the  family  had  builded.  This  new’ 
liouse  had  taken  their  spare  moments  for  many  months,  for  it  was 
a  good  house.  It  was  a  real  mud  house,  with  walls  two  feet  thick 
at  the  ground.  The  roof  was  thickly  thatched.  There  was  a  ver¬ 
anda  in  front  nearly  three  feet  wide.  There  wms  a  partition  reach¬ 
ing  nearly  to  the  ceiling  dividing  the  house  into  two  small  rooms, 
and  the  bin  for  the  harvest  of  grain  was  built  larger.  The  secret 
hanking  place  was  somewhere  in  the  thick  mud  walls  now\  The 
cot  and  the  earthen  cooking  place  were  there,  hut  there  was  also  a 
box  for  clothing  and  some  brass  cooking  vessels.  There  w’as  a  shelf 
of  mud  to  hold  the  tiny  tin  lamp  that  would  never  know  a  chimney. 
The  house  w’as  finished  with  a  coating  of  white  earth.  A  separate 
house  nearby  sheltered  a  pair  of  strong  black  buffalo,  the  pride  of 
the  family.  A  roughly  made  wagon  stood  near.  Its  wheels  were 
but  cross-sections  of  a  large  tree,  with  holes  burned  through  the 
middle  for  the  axle,  but  it  served  its  purpose  and  the  young  farmer 
received  payment  for  hauling  heavy  timbers  from  the  far  jungles 
for  the  timber  contractor  in  the  town.  The  old  wagon  never  failed 
to  proclaim  its  part  in  the  family  life  with  screeches  and  scrooches 
whenever  it  was  brought  into  service. 

I  have  forgotten  to  mention  the  group  of  castor  oil  trees  that 
grew  near  the  door,  the  tiny  mud  house  for  the  chickens,  the  great 
straw  stack  in  a  gnarled  old  tree  in  the  yard  and  the  garden,  with 
its  fence  of  brush,  where  grew  the  peppers  and  mustard,  the  gourds 
and  beans,  the  cucumbers  and  pumpkins. 

Few  of  the  farmers  of  that  district  had  better  homes  and  few 
were  so  respected  as  was  this  Christian  farmer,  for  God  had  pros¬ 
pered  him. 

“Man,  through  all  ages  of  revolving  time. 

Unchanging  man,  in  every  varying  clime. 

Deems  his  own  land  of  every  land  the  pride, 

Belov’d  of  heaven  o’er  all  the  world  beside: 

His  home,  the  spot  of  earth  supremely  blest, 

A  dearer,  sweeter  spot  than  all  the  rest.” 


Mission  Stories 


45 


LEGEND  OF  THE  VIRGIN 
GUADALUPE 

By  LILLIAN  WALLACE 

Churches  are  numerous  in  Mexico.  Even  in  very  small  towns 
we  find  as  many  as  three  or  four  Catholic  churches.  The  richness 
of  decoration,  the  beautiful  paintings,  the  costly  railings  of  gold  and 
silver  make  them  places  of  interest  to  the  stranger.  Added  to  all 
this,  the  legend  of  the  Virgin  Guadalupe  makes  her  church  the  holi¬ 
est  shrine  in  all  Mexico. 

In  1521,  just  after  the  Spanish  conquest — when  the  Mexicans 
seemed  reluctant  in  accepting  the  new  faith — it  was  decided  by  Cor¬ 
tez  and  the  Spanish  priests  that  if  in  any  way  the  Mexicans  could 
have  a  Virgin  of  their  own  they  would  the  more  readily  embrace 
Romanism.  The  cunning  Spaniards  were  not  long  in  devising  a  way 
for  the  “Mother  of  God”  to  show  her  love  for  the  Indians.  With 
great  wisdom  they  chose  as  the  place  for  tliis  wonderful  apparition 
a  spot  already  sacred  to  the  superstitious  Indian;  for  here  on  this 
barren  hill  they  had  long  whispered  “Tontantzin,”  a  heathen  mother 
of  the  gods. 

The  legend  that  they  made  up  tells  us  that  great  was  the  sur¬ 
prise  of  the  devout  Indian,  Juan  Diego,  when  the  Virgin  Guadalupe, 
in  the  guise  of  an  Indian  maiden,  appeared  to  him  one  chill  Decem¬ 
ber  morn.  She  commanded  him  to  gather  flowers.  To  gather  dowers 
on  such  a  spot  seemed  impossible.  In  humble  obedience  to  her  wish 
he  searched  and  found  them.  Soon  the  astonished  Juan  had  a  large 
bouquet  of  beautiful  roses,  which  he  carefully  wrapped  in  his  tilnia, 
or  blanket,  and  carried  them  to  the  priest.  Trembling  with  fear  and 
in  a  somewhat  excited  tone,  he  tells  the  priest  of  the  wonderful  ap¬ 
parition  of  the  Virgin;  but  greater  yet  is  his  surprise — upon  empty¬ 
ing  the  flowers  from  his  tilma  he  finds  stamped  therein  the  image 
of  the  Virgin.  Soon  this  miracle  of  miracles  is  circulated  among 
the  ignorant  Indians.  The  incredulous  story  is  never  doubted  A 
suggestion  from  the  priest  is  all  that  is  necessary;  the  Church  in 
honor  of  the  Virgin  is  soon  erected.  The  tilma,  with  its  mysterious 
picture,  is  encased  in  a  gold  frame  and  is  hung  just  over  the  altar 
For  almost  four  hundred  years  the  Virgin  Gradalupe  has  been  the 
most  exalted  object  of  adoration  in  all  Mexico.  Even  today  her 
shrine  is  visited,  not  only  by  the  untutored  Indian,  but  the  well- 
dressed,  well-bred  Mexicans  kneel  before  this  image  of  the  Virgin 
and  offer  up  their  devotions. 


46 


Mission  Stories 


The  image  is  described  as  being  a  wooden  doll  about  a  foot  high, 
bolding  in  its  arms  an  infant  Jesus.  Dressed  in  satins  and  pearls,  she 
calls  forth  the  admiration  of  the  people,  who  gaze  long  and  lovingly 
at  her.  In  1905 — only  a  few  short  years  ago — a  costly  gold  crown 
was  placed  above  the  image.  The  coronation  of  tlie  Virgin  was  a 
scene  of  great  pomp  and  ceremony,  not  only  attended  by  the  ecclesi¬ 
astical  dignitaries  of  Mexico,  but  also  by  an  archbishop  of  the  United 
States.  As  a  result,  the  popularity  of  the  worship  of  the  Virgin 
Guadalupe  has  been  marked  and  strong.  Yes,  this  idolatrous  devo¬ 
tion  continues  today  because  the  poor  Indian  knows  no  better,  but 
tlie  prelates  of  the  Catholic  Church  well  know  that  this  legend  is 
all  a  myth — that  it  has  no  foundation — for  there  never  was  such  an 
apparition,  nor  any  Juan  Diego.  The  superstitious  Mexicans  cling 
with  great  tenacity  to  the  traditions  and  legends  of  the  church.  The 
missionary  is  telling  the  beautiful  story  of  Jesus,  our  Savior,  and 
many  have  burned  their  saints  and  images  and  are  today  rejoicing 
in  a  Savior’s  love. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LUJAN 

By  ZONA  SMITH 

I  want  to  tell  you  of  a  visit  I  made  to  one  of  the  Catholic 
shrines.  A  party  of  seven  North  American  missionaries  went  out  to 
Lujan  (Lu-han,  accent  on  the  last  syllable  and  pronounce  a  as  in 
father),  a  small  town  thirty-five  or  forty  miles  from  Buenos  Aires, 
to  see  the  shrine  and  image  of  “Our  Lady  of  Lujan.”  After  going 
a  distance  of  perhaps  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  station  in  a  horse 
car  we  found  ourselves  before  a  magnilicent  church  edifice.  Within 
we  found  the  clay  image,  thirteen  inches  in  height,  which  was  cor¬ 
onated  by  the  authority  of  the  Pope  in  May,  1887.  She  is  the  pro¬ 
tector  of  Uruguay,  Paraguay  and  Argentina,  and  considered  one  of 
the  greatest  saints  in  all  South  America.  Many  pilgrimages,  some 
of  them  official  ones,  are  made  to  this  shrine.  Only  a  few  weeks 
ago,  when  the  Spanish  Infanta  was  here,  she  and  Argentine  govern¬ 
ment  officials  made  a  pilgrimage  there,  and  the  Infanta  left  a  beau¬ 
tiful  offering.  Our  lady  is  claimed  to  be  one  of  the  richest  virgins 
in  all  the  world,  so  numerous  and  valuable  have  been  the  offerings 
made  to  her.  Her  age  is  three  hundred  years. 

Two  elaborate  staircases  of  marble,  with  onvx  columns  in  the 
bannisters,  lead  up  to  the  small  chapel  where  this  image  is  kept. 
It  is  dressed  in  blue  and  white  satin,  decked  Avith  jewels  and  a 


Mi  s  sio  n  Stories 


47 


crown,  and  stands  above  a  luxiirions  altar  where  colored  candles  are 
kept  burning.  Vases,  candlesticks  and  other  accessories  to  this  altar 
are  overlaid  with  gold  leaf.  Beneath  the  image  is  an  enclosure 
where  the  holy  water  is  kept.  Still  below  this  is  a  bas-relief  in  gold 
of  the  burial  of  Jesus. 

From  this  chapel  we  went  to  other  chapels  in  the  building  and 
viewed  many  articles  left  there  for  this  virgin.  The  marbles  in  the 
shrines  are  very  beautiful.  It  was  both  amusing  and  heart-rending 
to  see  the  votive  offerings  left  there  by  the  poor,  ignorant,  deluded 
]>eople.  Most  of  them  Avcre  beneath  glass  and  enclosed  in  frames 
and  hung  on  the  walls.  They  were  of  various  materials,  some  em- 
liroidery,  some  inscriptions  on  gold  and  silver  plates  telling  what 
the  virgin  had  done  for  the  donors,  and  some  very  interesting  ones 
were  of  tin.  A  tin  arm  or  leg,  or  whatever  part  of  the  body  had 
been  healed,  there  represented  the  gratitude  of  the  healed  one. 
Crutches  abounded.  There  were  scores  of  bridal  wreaths  left  by 
brides  who  trusted  the  virgin  to  bless  their  marriage.  With  some 
of  them  were  the  bridegroom’s  gloves  or  a  piece  of  his  necktie. 

Let  me  tell  you  the  story  of  how  the  image  came  to  be  there.  A 
wealthy  man  bought  her  in  Brazil  for  his  own  private  chapel.  When 
transferred  she  wns  accompanied  by  an  African  slave  wTio  cared 
for  her,  and  continued  to  care  for  her  as  long  as  he  lived.  Attend¬ 
ants  attempted  to  carry  her  from  Buenos  Aires  to  the  man’s  house 
in  a  cart.  The  cart  stuck  in  the  mud  and  the  attendants  were  un¬ 
able  to  proceed.  They  thought  that  the  virgin  absolutely  refused 
to  go  on,  so  a  chapel  was  erected  for  her  there.  At  a  later  date 
a  certain  woman  was  very  anxious  to  have  the  virgin  in  lier  homo 
and  to  care  for  her,  and  so  she  was  removed  to  this  liome  without 
this  African  slave.  In  the  night  she  disappeared,  and  after  a  dili¬ 
gent  search  she  wars  found  in  the  chapel.  The  wmman  was  greatly 
distressed,  and  she  was  so  anxious  to  have  her  in  her  house  that 
she  tried  taking  her  again.  But  again  she  disappeared  in  the  night 
and  was  found  in  her  original  place.  So  it  was  decided  that  she 
would  not  stay  because  the  slave  was  not  with  her.  The  present 
building  is  five  leagues  from  wdiere  they  say  the  virgin  stopped. 
The  people  believe  that  this  virgin  worked  miracles  a  long  time 
ago,  and  I  am  told  that  they  base  their  belief  on  the  stories  told  by 
this  ignorant,  superstitious  African  slave  who  cared  for  her.  While 
we  wnre  in  the  chapel  five  worshipeis,  a  man  and  four  women,  came 
in,  bowed  before  the  piece  of  clay  and  said  prayers  to  it.  One  woman 
kissed  the  lace  altar-cloth  as  she  retired.  The  others  were  still  on 
their  knees  when  we  passed  out  Close  by  the  church  is  a  shop 


48 


Mission  Stories 


wliere  images  of  various  sizes  and  kinds  are  sold.  These  are  all  of 
“Our  Lady  of  Lujan”  and  are  to  be  put  in  the  shrines  in  private 
homes  or  worn  on  the  person  to  keep  off  evil  and  disease.  In  the 
town  of  Lujan,  where  several  hundred  people  live,  there  is  no  evan¬ 
gelical  work  of  any  kind. 

Let  me  give  you  another  instance  of  idol  worship.  Our  German- 
Swiss  brother  who  was  recently  baptized  was  helping  a  family  move 
a  few  days  ago.  Among  their  belongings  were  three  images  which 
were  greatly  prized  by  the  senora  (lady).  One  was  an  image  of  the 
boy  Jesus,  and  she  said  it  had  helped  her  boy  so  often  that  when  his 
lessons  were  so  difficult  that  he  could  not  get  them,  he  would  pray 
to  this  boy  image  and  it  helped  him  learn  them.  Another  was  a 
virgin  which  she  said  had  worked  miracles  in  her  home.  Ihe  chiee 

o  ,  , 

images  were  taken  in  a  carriage,  and  one,  the  miracle-working  vii  - 
gin,  was  lost.  The  woman  was  heart-broken  over  it  and  cried  bit¬ 
terly.  When  her  grown  son  came  home  in  the  evening  he  found  her 
weeping.  After  learning  the  cause  of  her  grief  he  told  her  it  was 
no  use  to  weep — that  the  image  could  not  do  anything,  and  e\en 
if  it  could,  that  there  were  plenty  others  being  manufactured  all  the 
time;  that  it  would  be  an  easy  matter  to  replace  it.  Then  our 
brother  learned  that  the  son  had  at  some  time  been  in  an  evan¬ 
gelical  Sunday  school,  where  he  had  learned  that  the  images  were 
powerless.  Our  brother  talked  with  the  woman  about  her  religion, 
and  at  first  she  was  very  angry,  but  as  they  talked  further  she  be¬ 
came  calm,  and  before  the  conversation  ended  she  admitted  that  she 
did  not  believe  in  The  confessional.  He  said  he  would  give  her  a 
Bible. 

Many  of  these  people  know  no  Christ.  Others  know  only  a  Christ 
on  the  cross  and  in  the  tomb.  Have  we  not  a  living  Christ?  Have 
we  not  a  peace-giving  Christ?  Do  not  these  people  need  to  know  our 
Christ? 


